Secrets Part IV
by SophiePersan
Summary: Harry & Ruth's story, just exactly as Spooks shows it. But also all the scenes that weren't shown - the other part of the story that's going on underneath. Harry and Ruth's Secret.
1. Chapter 1

**"SECRETS - PART FOUR"**

_**Again, warm hugs and huge thanks to my beta readers: Isa and Sarah. Thanks for your insight and encouragement.**_

**"**_**Spooks," its characters and scripts are the property of Kudos Film & Television and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended by the author of this story**_**.**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETY**

* * *

The car finally stopped. Harry heard two doors slam, and the key in the lock on the boot. There was a low creaking of the hinges opening, and then the metallic sound of the zip before the light assaulted his eyes and blinded him for a moment. He squinted against it and saw Viktor Sarkiisian looking down at him.

Two dark figures moved to either side of Viktor, and the light turned them into enormous silhouettes. Harry could see the blades of a helicopter turning in the distance, intermittently blocking out the sun. Viktor had to speak loudly to be heard over the motors. "Can I trust you?" he asked. Harry thought it a rather odd question to be asking of a person who was trussed up like a holiday roast, but he realised that Viktor was wanting to free him, so Harry nodded as vigorously as he could manage.

Within moments, Harry had been pulled unceremoniously from the bag, and he now stood with his mouth stinging from having the gaffer tape ripped from his skin. _But, Christ, I can breathe again_, he thought, thankfully taking in even the stale air of the abandoned field.

Viktor tilted his head at Harry, and narrowed his eyes. "Don't try anything," he said, and then he nodded to one of the men to cut the straps around Harry's ankles. They also cut the straps holding his hands behind his back, and allowed him to have new ones put on, much less constricting than the others had been, with his hands in the front. All in all, Harry's level of comfort increased exponentially. He was grateful, and he said a hoarse, "Thank you," to Viktor.

Harry was helped into the back of the helicopter, and they rose up, flying to the north. As he looked out the window, Harry quickly got his bearings. They'd been in a field south of London, and now they were crossing the river. He could even see Thames House below him, and for a moment he imagined the activity there.

They would be looking for him, checking Sarkiisian's associates, his haunts, his connections, but as Harry gazed, exhausted, down on the Embankment, he wondered at the futility of it all. Harry had to assume that he was now on a circuitous route to Moscow. He had to be realistic. He also had to assume that he was as good as dead.

He was on his way to the place that Lucas had just left, and was in all likelihood facing the same fate. Lucas' haunted eyes returned to him, saying, _I was tortured for seventeen days, continuously._ Lucas had accused Harry of being insensitive in asking him to recall his experience in Russia, and now, amidst the deafening noise of the helicopter, Harry had to acknowledge that Lucas had been right.

_But I was only doing my job_, said the voice in Harry's head. _Bullshit!_ he said back to the voice. _Every mistake I've ever made, everything I've ever done. Every life I've taken. They're all coming back to haunt me. Kachimov, the Russian in the underground, the Tehran train, and how many others?_

Harry still hadn't begun to recover from Charles Grady's questioning, not really, and he didn't honestly know if he could survive another round. He remembered the moment he'd stood in the boiler suit, feeling vulnerable, open, and so grateful that he was being interrogated by Grady in England. All bets were off now. His body belonged to the FSB. He'd given it to them in a moment of desperation. His act of sacrifice had achieved his goal, but now, the payment was due.

Looking down at Central London, Harry allowed himself a melancholy smile. Had it been worth it? Below him, life went on as always in the city that he loved, with all its dramas and banality. And it would continue to go on without him. _Yes, it was worth it_.

_And Ruth?_ Harry sighed and placed his cheek against the cold window_. I love you so completely, my Ruth. Always and forever, but we are clearly not meant to be. Now I can only hope to see you on the other side of whatever awaits me. There are no atheists in foxholes, my love. I will have faith, and will believe that after this life, you and I will finally be together._

Harry said a silent thank you to Malcolm. He knew that his friend would do everything he'd asked. Ruth would get the letters that told of his unwavering love for her. Even if she no longer loved him, he thought the letters would be a comfort, but more than that, right now, Harry needed his heart to be known. He hoped that Malcolm would also make sure that Catherine and Graham saw the letters if they felt they wanted to read them. As he was facing this uncertain future, Harry felt a need to have those he'd loved -- Catherine, Graham, and most especially Ruth – know that as he had walked through his days on the Grid, coldly barking orders and dispensing justice, his heart was full, alive and well, and loving an extraordinary woman. It felt like a legacy of sorts, for his children, and for Ruth.

The helicopter dropped down and flew toward Hertfordshire. _Of course_, Harry thought. A mansion came into view, and Harry looked at Sarkiisian in the front seat. For a moment, Harry felt an infinitesimal glimmer of hope.

_Malcolm will surely find a connection between Viktor Sarkiisian and a Moscow-on-Thames mansion._

* * *

"Harry Pearce. Leave a message."

_No, not another one_, Lucas thought. He'd already left two of them, and now he was sure Harry was in trouble. Directly after leaving the first message, Lucas had called Malcolm on the Grid and found out that Harry had gone to speak with Sarkiisian at FSB Headquarters. Lucas looked at his watch. It had been three-quarters of an hour since the bomb had detonated, and if Harry was free of Sarkiisian, he would have called by now.

The FSB agents that had been following them in the tunnels had not only suddenly stopped shooting, but they'd made it possible for Connie to defuse the bomb. Lucas had learned from Malcolm that Harry was appealing to Sarkiisian to save his own family, and the families of all of his people in London. And Lucas thought that Harry might have offered himself as a substitute for Connie. To give Sarkiisian a way to save face, and to placate his superiors.

So Harry had managed to keep them all alive, and was now missing, or worse.

Lucas drove quickly back to the Grid. For all these years, Lucas had thought it was Harry who had sold him out. All these years, when the nightmares came at 3:00 am and wouldn't cease, just as Connie had said, he'd blamed Harry. And all these years, Lucas had been wrong.

Ros' words were echoing through Lucas' head. _Harry sweated blood to get you back here, he'd rather die than anything happen to you._

Lucas needed to tell Harry that he'd been wrong to doubt him. He really hoped that it wasn't too late.

* * *

Harry wanted to keep his sense of time and orientation. He thought it must be nearly 5:00 p.m., and he'd last eaten a quick sandwich at about 1:00 in the car on the way to Ottawa Bravo. _Has this all been only one day? This was the day I awakened and packed a bag to go to Ruth_. He shook his head slightly, and pushed the plate away, unable to eat. He did drink all of the water, though. _Dehydration and interrogation, hand in glove._

Viktor stood looking out of the huge upstairs window. Harry wondered again at the propensity of people in questionable lines of work to choose these huge estates for their dramas to play out. Of course, the estates were usually in the country and surrounded by land, but it also seemed to Harry that there was some sense of entitlement, of needing to feel powerful, that drove their choices.

Harry looked up at Sarkiisian, who was dwarfed by the tall window. Strange as it seemed, Harry didn't think Viktor was a bad sort. He would certainly have turned out to be easier to work with than Kachimov had been. Viktor was the "new KGB," a talker, a thinker, a man with a young family and a young sensibility, an eye toward the future instead of a foot in the past. Despite their differences, Harry thought they might have worked well together.

Viktor turned to him. "You should eat. This is as good as it gets."

_Well, _Harry thought, _Might as well try to find out what he's up to_. "What are you going to do with me?" He hadn't spoken in quite a while and his voice was hoarse, rough.

Viktor looked at Harry with a measure of respect. "I will sell you on, of course. You should be proud of the price you command."

Harry felt as if he was simply making conversation, but he thought he might point out the obvious. "There are some people who will be concerned as to my whereabouts."

"This place is heavily guarded. Your people have no idea where you are." Viktor said, confidently. Harry looked away. Unfortunately, he had to agree.

"In the meantime, I will stroll around the gardens and reflect on my new-found independence from Moscow and the wealth that you will bring me and my men." Viktor walked toward the door to the marble staircase outside. "Feel free to try and escape. It will provide us all with some entertainment." _Maybe not all bad, but a bit too smug_, Harry thought.

Before Viktor could go through the door to the stairway, they both heard something. A sound from the hallway, and then another from beyond the terrace door behind Harry. Then sharp noises, followed by silence, that indicated a scuffle. Harry and Viktor both turned as the door to the terrace opened, and a black-clad figure walked through. Then the hall door opened, and to Harry's astonishment, Amish Mani stepped into the room.

Sarkiisian slowly put his hands on his head, and Harry's mind raced. _So, Viktor and Mani aren't working together_. In a split second, Harry made the assumption that Mani had rejoined the Indian Intelligence Bureau, and that he had dangled the high price in front of Sarkiisian in order to get Harry back. In any case, Harry thought he mightn't be shipped off to Moscow after all, and he felt a well of gratitude for Mani, no matter how unpleasant a person he remembered him to be.

Mani was dressed exactly as he had been in Baghdad, down to the cufflinks and polished shoes, and he looked at Harry and smiled. "Hello, old chap." Sarkiisian was being roughly handled, and was forced to kneel between two of Mani's men. Mani was speaking as if he and Harry were old and dear friends, in a tone that belied the anxiety that had begun as a tiny ball in Harry's stomach. "It's been a long time. I hope they haven't treated you too badly." Mani turned to Viktor, nodding, and said in the same tone, "Mr Sarkiisian?"

Harry thought this might not be a perfect way of gaining his freedom, but at least it looked better than the situation he'd been in a few minutes ago. He turned to Viktor, wanting somewhat to repay his smug talk earlier. "I told you I'd be missed." But Viktor laughed, which was not at all the reaction Harry was expecting.

"What is it?" Harry asked him.

Viktor looked up at Mani. "He thinks you've come to rescue him."

Now Mani offered a smile to Viktor. Mani's voice was smooth, low. "It's true. He does." The ball in Harry's stomach had enlarged to a knot, and it was growing.

Viktor turned to Harry, and said, "You're a fool, Harry. This is the man who offered such a high price for you. He just doesn't want to pay it."

"True again," Mani said, as he produced a handgun from his jacket and pulled back the slide in one graceful motion.

Viktor saw what was about to happen, and he tilted his head slightly at Mani. "Wait."

But Mani had no intention of waiting. He had a plan, and this was only the beginning of it. Sarkiisian said it again. "Wait!" but Mani simply raised the pistol, levelled it at Viktor's head, and pulled the trigger.

Harry had known that Amish Mani was not what he seemed in Baghdad, but this cold-hearted execution surprised even him. And Mani wasn't finished. "Cut off his ring finger and send it to Colonel Basukov at the Russian embassy."

Mani nodded to his men. They began to prepare for something, and Harry was terrifyingly certain that it was another execution. Those behind him were pulling black ski hoods over their faces, and wrapping armbands with the very-recognisable SARV insignia around their sleeves. One of the men was preparing a mobile phone, holding it up to frame Harry in the screen.

_Ah, Christ, no. An internet video_. And all Harry could think of was that this was how he would be remembered. He'd seen enough of them to know what it would look like. He'd been a ghost nearly his whole life, and now he'd be famous for a gruesome, public death. A death that his children would see, that Ruth would see. _Oh, Ruth, remember the letters, remember Bath, please don't remember this... _

Mani was waving the gun around, looking calmly at him. "Look around you, Harry. This is the room in which you are about to die."

Throughout the room, men began to chant in Arabic, rhythmic, low, as in a ritual. The phone's camera was pointed at him, its green light glowing. Viktor's body was being dragged to a corner, the blood collecting in a pool on the plastic cover.

Harry could think of nothing to say, nothing to do. The adrenaline was rushing through his body, cancelling his exhaustion but making him slightly lightheaded. His breath was coming in short bursts, and he shifted his weight from one knee to the other, ineffectually, without purpose. _After everything, this is the moment I die._

_I must say something that will make this better, this horrible thing they're going to see. I must tell Catherine and Graham, my children, my Ruth, that I love them, that I'm not in pain, that it will be fast, it won't hurt me, they're not to be sad, or worried, or grieve..._ Harry looked up at Mani, and asked, "Can I leave a message for my family?"

Mani held the gun level, just as he had moments ago when he'd pointed it at Viktor. When he had _killed_ Viktor. "No messages."

Harry looked down the barrel of the pistol, and he heard the shot. His eyes were open, but then, involuntarily, he squeezed them shut, as though to protect them from what was coming. And in a split second, he heard the shot as it whizzed past his right ear, so close that he thought he felt a slight puff of air from its speed. But it hadn't entered his body. Harry was confused, but not for very long, as a sharp pain cracked just behind his left ear, and he saw stars explode across his field of vision. Not a bullet, but the grip of another gun had struck him.

Then everything went black.

* * *

One hour later, Lucas, Ros, Malcolm and Jo sat in the meeting room and watched the same events play out on the large wall screen. Except that instead of going black after the shot, what they saw ended with Harry lying on the floor, his head surrounded by a pool of blood, his eyes closed, his body seemingly lifeless. And as they watched in various states of horror, grief and disbelief, each of them had the clear memory of Harry himself standing in front of the screen here in the meeting room, talking, listening, shouting, smiling. Alive.

Lucas clicked the remote and froze the screen. "Posted on the internet. But we pulled it, straight away. If it does get back into the public domain, the official line is that we're studying it for authenticity."

Ros asked the question that was in everyone's mind. "What do we think on its authenticity?"

Pulling up a section of the tape, Lucas said, "The insignia on the gunman belongs to the Sacred Army of Righteous Vengeance."

Ros' mind was beginning to engage again. "Okay, so let's say Sarkiisian did a deal with an extreme Islamic group like SARV. They certainly have the cash it would require. Still doesn't mean the execution is real."

Jo looked up. "What do you think, Malcolm?"

Malcolm's voice had an edge to it. He was trying to remain professional, but he had been deeply affected by seeing Harry in what were probably the last few seconds of his life. "It could be a sophisticated cut and paste job. But the big question is, why would they go to all that trouble?"

Ros said, "Well, if the SARV have got him, I'd expect them to milk it for ages. He's a massive trophy."

Malcolm couldn't take his eyes off of the screen, and Harry lying in the pool of blood. It was as if Harry had known, this afternoon, and Malcolm kept playing their last conversation over and over in a loop in his head. But he had to admit that this looked real to him. "You're just talking yourselves into optimism."

Ros sighed, and the helplessness she was feeling began to creep into her voice. "Well, what do you suggest, Malcolm? Should we start discussing the poem for his memorial service?"

In a flash, it was all too much for Malcolm. There on the screen was his friend, the man he had shook hands with not four hours ago, the man to whom he had said, _Come back_. And that man, his friend Harry, was dead. Ros was making it sound as if he were just anyone. Malcolm turned on her with a fury that none of them had seen since Colin was killed. "Don't you dare patronise me! I've known him for far longer than you have!" Malcolm proceeded to stare Ros down, which everyone in the room knew was not a thing that was easily done.

Ros looked away first, just for a split second, and when she answered, her voice held none of the edge it had just moments ago. Her apology was sincere, and heartfelt. "Sorry, Malcolm. I was rude and my comment was uncalled for."

They all tried to calculate the last time they'd heard Ros Myers apologise, as Lucas continued. "All right, look. Going back to Harry's trophy status, surely they'd want to interrogate him. "

Jo agreed, but only to a degree, as she answered Lucas. "Very quickly. They'd know we'd have red-flashed our assets and changed everything around within a matter of hours. They'd also know we'd be on the hunt." Jo turned to Ros. "It's dangerous holding on to a prize asset for too long."

Everyone in the room, apart from Malcolm, had personal experience in the finer points of interrogation. And Lucas, specifically, understood the Russian variety. They needed to act fast. Before leaving the room, Lucas said, "All right, despite our personal involvement, we treat Harry just like any missing asset. And remember, we still don't have a body."

Ros followed him out, leaving Jo and Malcolm still watching the video. Jo asked, "What do you think, Malcolm, really?"

Malcolm turned to her, and he told her the truth, although it gave him an actual, physical pain to do so. "I think it's genuine."

* * *

Harry opened his eyes, slowly, as the pain began to spread from the back of his head, around and into his eyes. His hands were still bound, but he managed to reach both of them up to feel the large lump that had swelled quite magnificently just behind his left ear. He was on a cold, hard floor, but it was still light outside. So it must still be earlier than 8:00 p.m., when the sun usually set at this time of year.

He managed to pull himself to a sitting position and leant his back against the wall. His head was splitting, but he paused for a moment and controlled the pain, hoping to get his wits back. The right side of his face felt sticky, and he reached a finger up to touch it. Whatever it was had dried, so he wet his finger on his tongue and touched it again, this time bringing away a reddish-brown substance that he recognised immediately as blood. He wondered idly if it was his own. The pain in his head was so acute that it was impossible to tell.

The room he was in seemed to be a service room, with two large sinks, so he brought himself slowly to a standing position and made his way there. Above the sinks was a filthy mirror, but he wet the sleeve of his shirt, cleared a small circle, and peered at his face. Not only was the blood on the entire right side of his face, but his hair on that side was matted, congealed, sticking out in hard spikes. He frowned, touching it, and began to understand what had probably happened.

Quickly, he turned on the water and rinsed not only his face, but his hair, and the cool water eased the pain in his head a bit as well. He took a drink of clean water and then put his head under the tap again, watching the pink rivers make their way down the drain. Once he was finished, he stood and felt the water drip on to the collar and shoulders of his shirt, which seemed miraculously free of blood, except for one sleeve. He took another drink and sat down again with his back against the wall.

It must have been Viktor's blood, he thought, remembering the Russian's body as it was dragged across the room on the plastic tarpaulin. And after asking himself why he would have been soaked in Sarkiisian's blood, the answer came quickly. Mani had faked the video to make it look as if they'd killed him. They didn't want Harry's team coming after him, but for some reason, they needed to keep him alive. From there, even through the throbbing of his head, it wasn't much of a leap to sort out why.

_The uranium_. He and Libby McCall had hidden it together in Norfolk. And then Harry had gone back and hidden it again. He knew that McCall, Mani and Hillier would cross him, so he double-crossed them first. And now they wanted it. So Mani had offered a high price on Harry's head, and they thought they could ask and he would simply tell.

What they hadn't bargained for was that right now, Harry Pearce felt he had very little to lose. And as Connie James had so eloquently put it recently, _Threats don't work on people with nothing to lose_. To allow Mani, McCall and Ronnie to sell the uranium on to the next highest bidder, to be made into a dirty bomb or worse, was simply out of the question.

Harry had spent the last few weeks staring into the abyss of his own conscience. There was nothing, and no one, that could force him to add more guilt to the mountain that already existed.

There was a sound outside the door, and Harry clambered to his feet to be ready for whatever, or whomever, was coming through it. Two men that he recognised from earlier took him by the arms and led him down a long hallway and into another room that was empty except for what looked to be rubbish along one of the walls, and two folding chairs in the middle of the room. Without a word, he was pushed into one of them, and the men left, closing the door behind them.

Harry inhaled deeply, and collected his wits as best he could. His head was still pounding, but less now. _What would I do if I were Mani? Does he really think there's anything he can do or say that would compel me to put weapons-grade uranium into the hands of whatever terrorists have the money to buy? Mani's only choice would be torture. Physical pain would be his only course of action._

After Harry's time with Charles Grady, he thought he might prefer physical pain to the emotional type he was still enduring. Harry wasn't young and strong like Zaf. His body would give out faster, and his mind would be more willing to let go of life. Of course, there was also the chance that Harry could use his intelligence and his experience to cut a deal with Mani. He didn't know what deal would be enticing enough, but Harry would listen, and Mani would give him a clue. They usually did.

Harry looked up sharply as the other door in the room opened, the one he assumed went down to the stairwell. One of Mani's men came through first, and then Mani himself, slamming the door loudly behind him. Harry looked down to the floor, steeling himself for whatever was to come.

Mani turned the second chair around until it faced Harry, and stood behind it. "Hello again, Harry."

Harry's best bet was to show Mani that he was still able to think, to work things through. Harry's voice was weary, almost as if he was bored by this whole process. "You really think my team will believe a faked execution?"

Mani thought Harry might sort that part out, but he was still fairly impressed. "I think they'll entertain the thought, but I agree they'll probably discover that you're alive." He began to walk toward the grimy window. "We'll keep tossing them curveballs though. The SARV video will keep them looking for the wrong people in all the wrong places."

Harry had to fight through the pain in his head. All he wanted to do was to lie down and sleep, to let the throbbing go away, but he gave his voice as much power as he possibly could. "Posing as a group of Islamic terrorists must have been hard for a dyed-in-the-wool Indian nationalist like yourself."

Mani shook his head lightly. "Omelettes and eggs, Harry. But I have to admit, it didn't come easily." Mani stepped around the chair and sat down. "What have you done with it, Harry?"

Just in case it wasn't the uranium, Harry didn't want to give Mani any ideas. "Done with what?"

"The very large quantity of weapons-grade uranium that you were supposed to be safeguarding."

Harry dropped the pretence. "Doing exactly that, safeguarding it."

Mani leant forward in the chair, and spoke softly, slowly, as if they were sharing a wonderful confidence. "Come on, Harry, we both know that everybody breaks in the end. It's only a question of ... when?" Mani abruptly pushed his chair back, creating a scraping noise that sent another painful echo through Harry's head.

Mani stood behind the chair, and again, he spoke softly, kindly. "More than one way to skin a cat, of course." Mani turned and went out the door.

After a quarter of an hour sitting in the chair and wondering what would happen next, Harry stood and walked the perimeter of the room. With his hands still bound, he tested doors and windows, but found them all locked. On the floor in a heap were a broken chair, an old wooden door, some empty window frames, and a set of curtains. There was nothing, really, that could be used as a weapon, and in any case, Harry was feeling himself losing touch with reality. He thought it might be the blow he'd taken to the head, and as he saw the sun travelling lower in the west, he could only think of lying down and closing his eyes.

Harry bent down and moved the door slightly away from the pile of rubbish, and then he arranged the heavy damask curtains across the door. He sat, and then lay down. It was hard to find a comfortable position on his side because his hands were still bound, so he rolled over onto his back and gazed at the badly damaged plaster on the ceiling far above him.

It was remarkably quiet, except for the occasional car going by, or the distant wail of an ambulance. As Harry watched the light change outside the window, he remembered another warehouse, and another bed. He imagined Sunstrike, and suddenly he had Ruth there with him.

He called on the music, bringing it into his head softly at first, testing it to be sure it wouldn't make the headache worsen. When it didn't, he closed his eyes and Ruth was stroking his forehead, the pale yellow light bathing her face and shoulders as if she were made of gold. Harry's head gradually ceased its pounding, and he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Ros knew they had to proceed as if Harry were alive, but she also understood that their time was limited, so she'd put out a request to their sister service to see if they had anything on SARV. They'd then spent the evening following up on a SARV lead that had come from an MI6 officer named Stephen Hillier. The lead was Abdul Hussein, and Ros planned to get hold of the psychiatric notes from his trauma counselling sessions in the morning. She hoped they would give them something to go on.

Soon after their meeting on the Grid, they'd gotten word that Viktor Sarkiisian's body had been found, minus one finger, which had presumably been sent to the Russians as an insult from SARV. Lucas went to the morgue in hopes of finding something that the examiners had missed, and whilst he was there, he met Sarah Caulfield from the CIA, who was Libby McCall's replacement at Grosvenor Square. She left Lucas with a promise, "I hear anything at all, you'll be the first to know."

Lucas knew better, and said with a smile, "I doubt that. Keep me high on the list, at least."

At midnight, Ros told the team to go home and get some rest. She knew they had to hold out hope.

"Right now, Harry's either dead or facing death. I know we're scraping the barrel, but it's all we can do."

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETY-ONE**

* * *

Lucas stepped back onto the Grid at 5:30 a.m., only to find Jo already there. She looked up from her SARV research to wave him toward the Communications Suite. "Malcolm said to catch you or Ros when you came in. He wants you to hear something." She turned back to her computer screen.

"Malcolm's already here?" Lucas was headed toward the coffee, which he badly needed.

"Been here all night," was all he heard from Jo before he was out of earshot. Lucas quickly got his coffee, silently thanking whomever had brewed it, and walked back toward Communications.

"Jo said you had something." Lucas put down his coffee and stood behind Malcolm's chair. He not only had the video of Harry up on the screen, but also the sound data.

Malcolm had been trying to discover if the video had been edited, spliced together. "The video is inconclusive. I've done a frame-link analysis and there are some stutters but it was done on a mobile phone so that proves nothing."

Lucas had to agree with Harry that most of the time he understood about half of what Malcolm said. But he knew that sooner or later he would get to a bit that he could track, so he simply said, "All right."

Lucas gratefully took another sip of the strong, hot coffee, and set it down again. Malcolm hadn't even looked up yet, but he was continuing to explain, "The interesting thing is in the sounds, the jeering. Now, we've done some sound-splitting and redub to isolate each separate noise item."

Lucas smiled. Still no light at the end of the techno-speak tunnel, but he was a patient man. "No wonder you've been here all night, Malcolm."

"Most of it's just incoherent cat-calling, but we got one word, pulled it right out of the sequence and put wave-enhancement treatment on it."

Now Lucas' attention was commanded, as he listened to a very clear word being spoken in a male voice. The word was playing over and over. Lucas frowned and asked, "What is that?"

Malcolm spoke with obvious pride at having discovered it. "It's an insult. If these people are SARV, you'd expect to hear Arabic, English, perhaps Punjabi, right?"

"Uh-huh." Lucas was trying to place the language he was hearing, but couldn't quite get it.

Malcolm already had. "But this is Malayalam. The official language of Kerala. In India."

Lucas asked, "Just one word?"

"Well, somebody forgot himself in the excitement, but I'd be very surprised ... I'd be _amazed_ ... if a foot soldier in SARV was recruited in Kerala." Malcolm turned finally, and looked at Lucas.

Lucas looked back at Malcolm as he continued to listen to the voice on the recorder. "So why would someone from India be involved in Harry's disappearance?"

Malcolm flipped off the recorder, and simply looked at Lucas, trying to decide what to do. Lucas could see that there was something more, but Malcolm still hadn't spoken. Lucas decided to give him just a bit of space, so he walked over to his coffee cup and picked it up. He raised it to Malcolm and said, "Would you like a cup? I'm going to freshen mine."

Malcolm nodded, still looking rather like a deer in the headlights. As Lucas walked toward the door, he said with a crooked smile, "That'll give you a chance to decide if you want to tell me the rest of what you know."

When Lucas returned, Malcolm was just retrieving something from the printer. Malcolm handed Lucas the paper, as Lucas handed the coffee to him. Sitting down to read it, Lucas saw immediately that it was in French, and he tilted his head at Malcolm, handing it back. "I'm sorry to admit I never made it through my O levels. What does it say?"

Malcolm smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Well, there's so much more to the story, actually, and I've been trusted with it. I'm strongly hoping I can trust you with it as well, at least the parts I need to tell you. Because I think this is relevant, and it may be useful to you."

Malcolm began to read. "It says: 'This arrived today from a friend. Thought you would like to know.' And it's signed, 'R.'"

Lucas asked, "And who is 'R'?"

"Her name is Ruth. She's a former officer who was forced into exile. She made a great sacrifice for Harry in order to save him from being imprisoned for something he didn't do."

Lucas thought for a moment, and then nodded. "Ruth Evershed. I've seen her name, and her analyst skills are somewhat legendary around here. But her records say she drowned."

Malcolm was silent. He simply kept his eyes on Lucas, his look betraying nothing.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "Exile. Ah." Then Lucas broke into a smile, and said, "I knew there was something different about Harry." He looked directly at Malcolm. "He cared for her, didn't he?" When Malcolm didn't answer, Lucas laughed softly, "I know, that's not a relevant question, but that's alright. I've seen it. It's like he's here, but he's also somewhere else. That actually helps to explain quite a lot." He took a long sip of his coffee, and then said, "Go on."

Malcolm translated the rest of the letter. "'I hope this reaches you. A very tall man, Indian I believe, was here asking for S.P. today. I told the truth -- that you left a year ago and I do not know where you are. Be safe. I still pray to see you again.'" He looked up at Lucas. "S.P. was her legend in Paris, and the person who wrote this was a friend of hers there."

"She left Paris a year ago? And where is she now?"

Malcolm hesitated, but then shrugged. He'd already said so much, and he did trust Lucas. If it could make a difference in finding Harry, Malcolm would do anything right now. "She's on Cyprus. In Polis."

"And when did you get this?" Lucas asked.

"Yesterday, right before 3:00 p.m." Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "Didn't know then whether it would make any difference or not."

Lucas looked back at him, remembering Connie, and the tunnel, and the bomb blast. "I can understand that. I think a lot of us were wondering that right about then."

Malcolm put down the paper and sipped at his coffee. "I thought you should know."

Lucas nodded. "Thanks, Malcolm." He rubbed his forehead. "So we have an Indian voice on the tape, and an Indian man looking for Ruth. Without any obvious ties to either Russia or SARV." He stood to go back out to the Grid, and then turned back. "Malcolm, may I tell Ros? I wouldn't feel comfortable keeping this from her if it did become relevant."

Malcolm grimaced slightly. "If you have to, certainly you should. But you should also be aware," Malcolm looked at Lucas over the rim of his coffee cup, "That Ruth and Ros weren't the greatest of chums."

Lucas smiled and nodded. "Understood."

* * *

Harry had awakened to a sharp kick in the side, coincidentally directly on the spot that the tyre iron had dug into and left a bruise yesterday. He jumped from the pain, and from the heavily-accented voice saying, "Get up!"

It was light outside, and Harry had slept fitfully. At some point, he'd wrapped himself in the dust-ridden curtains for warmth, but the night on the hard wooden door had left him aching and still exhausted.

The same two men from yesterday took him under the arms and lifted, raising him to his feet. They pulled him back to the same chair and dropped him in it, before walking to the door.

"May I ..." Harry's voice was rough, ragged, and his mouth felt parched and full of dust. He cleared his throat quickly and finished, "May I have some water, please?"

The men turned and laughed, and then speaking in an Indian dialect Harry didn't understand, walked out of the door.

Harry sat hunched on the chair, and if he hadn't been so thirsty, he might have fallen asleep right there. His could hear his own breathing, somewhat laboured and rough, and wondered how long they would leave him alone here. He didn't have to wonder for long.

The door across from him opened again, and Mani stepped through. He was carrying a bottle of water, and for a moment, Harry thought he might offer it to him. But Mani sat in the chair across from him, and simply looked at him for a time. He knew that Mani was sizing up his weakness. Harry didn't even have the energy to pretend.

Mani reached down and twisted the cap on the bottle of water, slowly, taking his time. Then he raised it to his lips, deliberately letting the sound of the water fill the silent room. Harry knew exactly what Mani was doing, as he remembered his own training in interrogation. _Drink the water as if you're making love to it._ Harry concentrated on controlling his own breath, and he tried again to find the music.

After nearly finishing the bottle, and a final, satisfied _ahh_, Mani spoke. "I'm not a psychopath, Harry. The sound of screaming actually sets my teeth on edge. Especially women." Harry very much doubted that, but instead of responding, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, and concentrated on remaining upright in the chair. Mani continued, "There is a woman, though, who also knows what I want. The one who was with you in Baghdad."

Now Harry looked up, incredulous. _Ruth? No, not Ruth!_ The adrenaline was beginning to course through him at the thought of this animal being anywhere near his Ruth. He gave as much of a laugh as was possible in his condition. "She's dead. You can't get to her."

Mani kept his eyes on Harry, and said softly, confidently, "She's very much alive, as both you and I know."

A terror suddenly gripped Harry._ Could Mani find her? Oh, God, why did I ever take her to Baghdad? I've put her in danger. Again._ _Please no, not Ruth. You can't_. Harry looked up at Mani, and he heard the sound of pleading in his own voice. Harry shook his head, and said softly, "She doesn't know."

Smiling, Mani said, "I think she does. But even if I'm wrong, sometimes it's the pain of others that can make people break." Mani brought the bottle to his mouth again, and took another sip. He watched Harry trying to control his distress, and he could see that he had found the way to Harry Pearce. He pushed his chair away again, scraping the floor, and he saw Harry flinch.

Mani smiled as he walked through the door. Ruth was Harry's weakness, his Achilles Heel. All he had to do was to put them in the same room together, and he would have his uranium.

* * *

"Are you coming in?" Nico emerged from the water through the centre of the tube and asked Ruth the same question he'd asked three times already. Earlier she'd said she would swim with him, but she was trying a new salad recipe with poached sea bass and summer vegetables, and it was more complicated than she'd thought. They were going to spend the afternoon and evening at the beach, and would have their dinner there, so she needed not only to poach the fish and chill it, but also to pack it all up to keep until supper time.

So, no, Ruth didn't think she could swim this morning. "Not if you want to eat tonight," she called back to Nico.

Ruth loved the beach, and though she had much to do, she was feeling a sense of well-being, a happiness, at the day they had planned. All three of them enjoyed the sea, the endless play that the water offered, the sounds of other families, and the peace that came with the waves and the wind.

Even George seemed to be looking forward to an entire day off from the hospital. He stepped out onto the porch and watched as Ruth diced the vegetables. "Looks good."

Ruth turned around. She had just remembered that she'd forgotten to buy the wine when she was in town. "We need wine."

"That's OK, I got a few bottles in on Friday."

Ruth thought that if he spent any time at all on shopping or in the kitchen, he would know a bit about what was actually in the house. But she only said, "And we finished them on Monday." She was clearly too busy to go, and she knew George was anxious to get to the beach, so he was really the only option.

Except that George managed to come up with another choice. At least he was smiling when he said it. "Would it be so wrong to send Nico to get more?" Ruth laughed, and looked out toward the pool, as George said, "Well, why bother having children if you can't make them do stuff for you?"

Ruth thought she would try another tack. George was very attached to his nightly wine, so she backed off. "Well, I'm quite happy without it."

George knew exactly what she was doing. "Me too, obviously."

"Good, so we'll just have ... water," Ruth said.

George grimaced, knowing she'd won. "All right, I'm going. See you in ten." He began the short walk down the driveway toward the mountain shop, where he knew he could find two good bottles of white to go with the fish.

Ruth watched him, thinking, _Today_ _is a good day. This is a day that makes me believe I can do this_. George had been nicer to her since they'd made love again, especially so, given that she'd been the one who had suggested it. He'd been much like the George she'd known in the early days of their friendship, but underneath her optimism was a realist who wondered how long it would last.

She saw him turn the corner and go into the house to get his wallet, and Ruth smiled. She'd tried to imagine a new life for herself, and here it was. Not the perfect life, by any means, but a good one. Today, she was happy. It wasn't a life with Harry, but she thought it might be second best. Ruth looked at Nico in the pool, and realised again how much she loved the boy. She couldn't seem to fall in love with his father, but she loved Nico. Ruth sighed. _Maybe that can be enough_.

She returned to her chopping._ Dill. That's what I need for the fish_. Ruth walked out toward the herb garden by the fence, and watched Nico swim across the pool under the water. _Just as I like to do_, she thought, remembering their races. Nico could always hold his breath longer than she could, and he loved to win. She smiled as he popped up at the other end, and then she bent to her knees in the garden. She found just the right sprigs of dill weed, and then brought the broken end to her nose to breathe in the rich, spicy aroma.

When she looked up, George was beginning his walk, and she waved as he disappeared down the driveway. At just that moment a car pulled in, one that Ruth had never seen before. As she looked closer, she could see that it was a black rental car, bright and shiny, unlike the usual vehicles seen in the mountains.

Ruth frowned, and the fear began to rise in her chest. _They're Indian_. The two men in the car were definitely Indian. And standing at the edge of the mountain house, with fresh dill in her hands, feeling the Cyprus sun on her skin, Ruth knew that her prayers to Aphrodite had been answered.

_Change is here_, Ruth thought.

Ruth walked quickly back to the side of the pool. "Nico, get out and go and wait by the car."

He was sitting in the tube floating, and he was understandably reluctant. "What, now?"

Her voice was more strident than she meant it to be. "Yes, now!"

She had started to walk back toward the house, when Nico asked, "Why?"

Ruth didn't have time for this, and she most certainly couldn't explain why. So she lied, keeping her voice light. "Because I ... I ... feel bad about making your dad walk on such a hot day. Come on, we'll surprise him." She looked back, and Nico wasn't moving. "Come on!"

Ruth reached the inside of the porch doors and stopped. In her mind, she mapped out exactly where she would go, and what she would get. And she did something else as well, without even knowing it. In a split second, she changed from Faith Ruth Benson into Ruth Elizabeth Evershed. It was almost frightening to her how quickly and easily the transition happened, and when she would think about it afterwards, countless times, she would understand that the born spook, Ruth Evershed, had never really been far away.

Ruth tried to think where they could go to be safe, and she knew that although she'd already put George and Nico in danger, she refused to involve anyone else. Her first thought was to go to Christina's, but she knew that if they had found her here at George's house, they would find her at Christina's. Ruth knew there was only one place to go, and only one group of people who could protect her and her family. _England, and MI5_. And her heart added, _and Harry_.

She took a deep breath and ran up the stairs to the bedroom, retrieving their passports from the top drawer. Then to the hall closet, where her carry-all was packed and ready to go on the top shelf. Ruth jumped and caught it as it fell, and was outside near the car in just seconds. But Nico wasn't waiting by the car as she'd told him.

Ruth's heart was racing. She knew the men would be coming around the back any moment now, and she absolutely would not leave her boy in their hands. She looked quickly toward the pool, dropped her bag, and ran to find him. He wasn't there, but she looked up and the two men were walking around the side of the house. Then, as she looked frantically at the car again, she saw Nico there, wrapped in a towel, looking bewildered.

She took off at a full run toward him, her voice high-pitched, screaming, "Get in the car!" The men heard her, as she'd known they would, but she had no choice. They began to run also, and now it was a race. Nico saw her panic, and jumped quickly into the back seat of the car, his usual place. Ruth picked up the bag as she ran by it, and threw it in the front seat, getting in, and closing and locking the doors. She hit the sun visor and the keys fell into her waiting hands.

Within moments, they were speeding down the driveway, with the men pounding on the windows as they ran alongside. Ruth called back to Nico, "You all right?" and he nodded, his face full of terror and confusion. Ruth finally had the speed to shift into third gear, and they rapidly pulled away. Their attackers would now have to run back to their own car before they could get on the road, and Ruth thought that would buy them enough time to get away.

But first she had to pick up George. She took the turn toward the mountain shop, and saw him walking with the two bottles of wine in a paper bag at his side. He looked up and frowned at the sight of the car, and when Ruth turned sharply, he stepped back and put his arm up to protect his eyes from the spray of dust and stones that were thrown up by the wheels. "What the hell are you ..." he shouted, when she opened the passenger door.

"Get in!" Her voice was shrill, sharp, and he stood dumbfounded for a moment. "Now!" she said, and he got quickly into the front seat. She floored the gas pedal before he had the door closed, and he turned to her, angrily, and said, "What's got into you? What the hell are you doing?"

Ruth kept her eyes riveted to the long, straight road ahead of them. "I'll tell you when we get there." She quickly looked at her watch and calculated. It was 10:00 a.m., and the flight to London left from Paphos at 11:30. She had known the flights that left for London from her first days on Cyprus, and they never changed. They couldn't take the main highway, but her weekends with George on the mountain roads had taught her the shortcuts, the back way to Paphos in the south.

Mystified, George looked at the determined, resolute woman sitting beside him. Her mouth was fixed, her eyes were narrowed, and she no longer even looked like Ruth. In fact, he suddenly felt he had not the slightest idea who she was.

* * *

It was taking every ounce of Harry's energy to stay calm, and still, he wasn't having much success. Mani had come back in to the room with another bottle of water, and was taunting him with it again. But that wasn't the worst of it. Mani was talking about Ruth at the dinner table in Baghdad, and what a wonderful conversationalist she had been.

He turned to Harry, and said, "It will be nice to have her here with us again, won't it, Harry? Just like three old friends."

Harry took a deep breath, and looked at Mani with all the loathing he felt. "You don't know where she is."

Mani took a long sip of the water, and then licked his lips. He looked out of the dirty window as if he were seeing the sea in the distance. He spoke softly, dreamily, "Ah, Cyprus. So beautiful at this time of the year." He turned to Harry. "Did you enjoy your stay at the Hotel Anassa?"

When Harry didn't react, Mani turned again to the window. "But she seems to have forgotten you. Pity. Did you know she's married?"

Mani looked back to Harry just in time to see the shock flicker across his face, and he smiled. _So he didn't know_. "Yes, Harry, and with a little boy, it seems. A whole new family." Mani walked back to Harry, put his mouth close to his ear, and whispered. "So whatever happened between you must not have been very memorable." Mani stood and gave Harry a look of mock concern. "Poor Harry."

Mani's mobile rang, and he pulled it from his inside jacket pocket. With his back toward Harry, he listened for a moment, and then said, coldly, "You'd better hope she returns to Britain now. If you're lucky, she'll turn for help to the only place she really knows."

Mani walked toward the door, and without another word to Harry, left the room.

Harry hardly even saw him go. He was trying to control his racing heart. _Married. A little boy. A whole new family_. The words sliced through him as if each one were a newly sharpened blade. In his exhaustion, he felt the emotion begin to rise in his chest. _No wonder Malcolm didn't want to tell me. Well, what did I expect? I left her completely alone. I sent her no word that I still loved her. What did I think would happen?_

But through the shock, the grief of this news, he heard what Mani had last said, and he realised Ruth had gotten away. _Don't come to London, Ruth. Please stay away. If you can still hear me, my psychic love, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. With your husband, and your son._

Just thinking the words caused Harry a pain so sharp that his next breath was a gasp. _I was her husband. _

Charles Grady's face looked back at him. _Everyone, Harry. You push everyone away. _Grady laughed, his mouth twisted. _Indeed, what did you expect?_

* * *

There hadn't been three seats together on the plane, and Ruth was extremely grateful. She'd had no idea what to say to George, but it was Nico's eyes that were haunting her now. He'd looked so hurt, and even though he didn't know what it was that had caused this change in their lives, he knew he was travelling to London, a place that he despised, and that his father was very, very angry with Ruth.

She thought she might be in a sort of shock, but when she searched inside her heart, she couldn't find George there anywhere. His contempt was transparent on his face as he looked at her. At first he'd refused to go to London, but finally she'd told him his life was in danger, and that he must. He'd still said no, and she'd said, "Then think of Nico. They'll come after him, George. And they'll hurt him. Do you want that?"

He'd nearly spat the words at her. "They? Who is _they_, Ruth? Who are _you_??"

Finally, she had released a loud sigh, and said, softly, "Before I came to Cyprus, I worked for the British Security Services."

George had simply stood, slack-jawed, his forehead creasing slowly into a frown. Then, he'd done something she would never have expected. He let a short, disparaging laugh escape. "A spy? You?" And she realised his reaction was less a matter of his shock at the fact of it, and more his unwillingness to believe she had it in her to do the job.

The announcement had come over the loudspeaker then, and they'd boarded the plane and found their seats without another word. It was a five-hour flight, and with the two hour-time difference, they would reach London at 2:30 p.m. BST. In a little over five hours, Ruth would call the Grid and ask to be brought in. Within six hours, it was possible that Ruth would be standing across from Harry Pearce.

At that thought, the conflicting emotions that coursed through her were impossible to sort out. She was so angry that this had happened. On a day that had started so well, with her happiness, with a feeling of possibilities. Now, not only was she in danger, but she had dragged two good and innocent people with her. Everything had changed. She was angry with Harry for his silence for the last year, but she was even angrier at being pulled back into the life that had abandoned her.

She'd made her way, found another life, and asked nothing of the Services. Yet here she was right in the middle of it again, in the nightmare of fear, and running, of confusion, and lies. And the worst part, the absolute icing on the bloody cake, was that deep in her heart there was a part of her that was grateful that this would allow her to see Harry again. _Grateful! Oh, the heart is a foolish beast_.

Ruth sighed and lay her head back on the seat. She would sleep, she knew that. She always slept on aeroplanes, no matter what was going on. But as she waited for sleep to claim her, there was one more thing that was preying on her mind.

They'd just made it before the plane had taken off, and although Ruth had lost the two men on the road, she couldn't help wondering why there weren't others watching the only real airport on the island. It was sloppy tradecraft, and these men didn't seem to be the sloppy sort. Amish Mani hadn't seemed the type to let someone slip through his fingers quite this easily.

So in addition to thinking about Nico, George, Harry and herself, Ruth was wondering why Mani's men had made it so easy for her to get back to London.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER NINETY-TWO**

* * *

Harry was right. Malcolm did make the connection between Sarkiisian and the millionaire owner of the Moscow-on-Thames mansion. As he told Lucas, the house was massive, secluded, with plenty of room to land a helicopter, and it was empty at the time of Harry's abduction. Lucas dispatched a team straight away to examine it, top to bottom.

When the team returned with their findings, Lucas shared the report with Ros, Malcolm, and Jo from his desk on the Grid. "Someone was killed there," he told them. "More than one person, actually. They did a pretty good job of cleaning up, but we found microscopic traces of three different types of blood. One matched Sarkiisian's. He was executed there. But none of the blood was Harry's."

Malcolm said, "They used the Russian's blood to simulate the pool at Harry's head."

With great relief evident in her voice, Jo said, "Then he's alive."

Lucas looked up at Ros, who smiled back at him_. Yes, alive_, she thought. But Ros knew they had to face facts. She turned to Jo, and said, "At least he was alive when they left there. We don't know what they've done with him since then."

Frowning, Jo said to Ros, "So Sarkiisian is dead. We still don't know why Stephen Hillier was wasting our time with the SARV connection, do we? And now that Malcolm has found the Indian voice on the tape, SARV seems not to be involved, in any case. So where does that leave us? Who are we looking for now?" She paused and looked at the others. "Who has Harry?"

Lucas looked up at Malcolm, who pursed his lips, and then nodded. Lucas inclined his head toward the meeting room, asking the three of them to follow him. Once inside, he closed the door, and said, "Malcolm discovered the voice on the tape speaking in Malayalam. That's one Indian connection. But there's another."

Lucas turned to Malcolm, who looked to Ros and Jo. He wondered how to say it, but then realised that directly would best. "Ruth Evershed is alive." There was more shock on Jo's face than there was on Ros'. Malcolm looked at Ros, narrowing his eyes slightly, and said, "You knew?"

Ros spoke softly. "After Adam died, Harry and I were talking, and I guessed as much. He didn't deny it." She sat on the edge of the meeting room table. "But I know nothing more."

Jo sat down, taking the news in, and looked up at Malcolm. She was surprised -- not so much that Ruth was alive, but that it had been kept a secret for so long. "Where is she? Where has she been all this time?"

Malcolm was silent for a moment before he spoke, his eyes looking down at the floor. "I'm already a bit uncomfortable sharing this much, so I think I'll spare details, if that's alright. I'll let Harry tell you ... when ... when he gets back."

Malcolm looked up again, and although he looked very tired from his long night at the computer, they could see that he had more resolve in his eyes that they'd seen earlier. "But there's part of this story that's germane to Harry's current troubles, and that's why we're discussing it." He looked at Lucas. "It seems that there was an Indian man looking for Ruth very recently, and we think that man, and the Indian voice on the tape, may be connected."

Ros began to put it all together. "If Harry's still alive, it's for a reason. They either want information from him, or they want to trade him on for a price. We need to find out which one it is. If they want information, and they're also after Ruth, she may know who they are, and what they're looking for." She turned to Malcolm. "Can you get in touch with Ruth? Can we ask her questions?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes, but it's by email, and I don't know how fast she'll respond."

Ros smiled at him, "But you know where she is, don't you?" Malcolm nodded again, and Ros said gently, "You're very resourceful, Malcolm. I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you'll come up with a way to reach her quickly. We need to know if there's a connection. Perhaps Ruth can help us find it."

* * *

The flight attendant announced what Ruth already knew. They were approaching Heathrow. It was a clear day, and she'd seen the blue waters of the channel as they'd passed over it. In fact, as she looked below her, she'd even been able to see the cliffs of Dover. She'd closed her eyes for a moment, remembering that last kiss at the ferry. The last time she'd heard Harry's voice or felt his touch.

And now, she was flying over England, and close to him. Ruth truly didn't know how she felt. She was only aware that Harry was ahead of her, that George and Nico were ten rows behind her, and that she was in the middle.

Ruth laid her head back on the seat and closed her eyes for a moment. Hadn't she tried to do the right thing, all along? She felt she had. She'd given up her life in London because at the time, there had seemed no other choice. She'd started a new life on Cyprus because it was offered to her. She'd tried so hard to let go of Harry, and to love George. Ruth thought she'd done the very best she could, every step of the way. And now this.

Whatever it was – fate, destiny, or just bad luck – Ruth was being pulled back to Harry, back to the Grid. She felt the plane slow, and she expanded her jaw slightly to release the pressure in her ears as they continued their descent. Ruth pressed her face against the window, looking down at the impossibly green fields of southern England and the irregular delineations of the farms there. Then houses, a few at first, then more, then the expanse of the city.

She had no idea what awaited her here in England, but as the plane flew further inland, she began to feel strangely protected. _England. _Ruth felt held within her borders, floating in her airspace, a part of her ebb and flow again. She knew that the dangers that had kept her from coming home for so long had not gone away. She would still have to face Cotterdam, and Maudsley, and the woman with the dark hair who had drowned in the Thames and lay in a grave with the name _Ruth Evershed_ above it.

She knew that the cause for her coming here, the Indian men who were chasing her, were still out there. She dreaded the countless questions that George and Nico would have, questions that must be answered. And Ruth was particularly aware that Harry, the man she still loved beyond all reason, was here. There was so much yet to face.

But as the wheels of the plane touched the tarmac, a strange peace descended on Ruth. After everything that had happened, and within the turmoil of a thousand conflicting emotions, she was finally home.

* * *

Malcolm said thank you, and then hung up the phone. Although he'd been reluctant to seek the help of Six, he'd talked with Lucas and Ros, and they'd decided that the desperation of Harry's situation required every means possible.

So Malcolm had called in a favour of the newsagent in Polis, codename Stavros, the MI6 officer who was tasked with keeping an eye on the border tensions between Northern and Southern Cyprus. Malcolm had met him briefly years ago, when Stavros was still stationed in England. He'd done something or other for Stavros, probably computer-related. Malcolm couldn't honestly remember, but he'd been very glad that Stavros had.

When Malcolm asked him, Stavros did recall the two Asian men who had stopped at his booth and shown him a photo of a pretty woman with brown hair. Stavros knew her well from her Sundays in the Square, but he hadn't seen her often of late. Of course, Stavros had said nothing to the men asking about her, as he was a trusted member of the small community, and he would never jeopardise his reputation for two strangers asking questions.

Malcolm had asked Stavros to discover where Ruth lived, and after only a few inquiries of the locals, he'd travelled to the mountain house on his scooter. There was no one home, but the house was wide open, and they seemed to have left in a hurry. There were vegetables and fresh fish sitting out on a table by the pool, now providing supper for the flies. Other than the abandoned food, there was no evidence of foul play, and nothing seemed out of place.

To Malcolm's mind, there were two possibilities. Ruth had been found, and taken. Or, she had seen they were coming, and she'd run. Of course, there was always a third possibility, that some entirely unrelated emergency had called Ruth away from fixing her dinner. But as Malcolm had been the one in their meeting yesterday telling others that they were fooling themselves, he wasn't about to start deceiving himself.

For a moment, Malcolm sat, absently tapping his computer keys. Stavros had also told him that he believed Ruth was married to the paediatric doctor at the hospital in Polis. Malcolm released a heavy sigh. _Too late. Harry's waited too long._ A painful weariness suddenly descended on Malcolm. He knew that if ... and then he amended it in his mind to say, _when_ .... Harry came out of this, there would also be that to face.

Malcolm went quickly out to the Grid and shared what Stavros had told him with Lucas and Ros, and then he walked back to his computer. He couldn't get the thought out of his mind of Ruth, married. His sadness for Harry was very deep, but it was tinged with something else as well. _A warning_.

Malcolm found that his head was suddenly filled with Sarah.

Before he began his search through flight manifests from Cyprus, Malcolm made a quick detour to what he called his "Sarah searches." He clicked rapidly through them, and breathed another sigh, this time one of relief. She was still living alone, still at the same job, no name change, no licences. He remembered what Harry had said in the car on the drive to Liverpool so long ago. _I hope the lovely Sarah is still there, Malcolm._ And Malcolm had replied, _And I hope Ruth is still there as well, Harry._

As he sat staring at the small photo of Sarah that he kept hidden in the folder on his computer, Malcolm felt a quickening, a change in the balance of his own feelings. His need for the Services moved just a bit lower, whilst his wish for the feel of Sarah's arms inched up. He felt time closing in on him, inexorably, and a lassitude of _What is it all for?_ began to grow in his heart.

Malcolm closed the window and turned back to the list of flights leaving Cyprus. He knew his primary task was to get Harry back on the Grid, but once that was accomplished, he told himself that he would look at his own future. He remembered another part of his conversation with Harry in the car, as he had said, softly, "We were very good together, Sarah and I."

And in his thoughts, he kept the hope: _And one day, we can be good together again_.

* * *

"Where are you taking us?" George was very angry, and Ruth felt a need to keep Nico between them as they walked down the long corridor toward the tube. George carried their only bag over his shoulder, and Ruth realised it had her things, but nothing for Nico and George. Luckily, hidden in a pocket, her carry-all also contained cash in British pounds from her own personal account, "just in case." They'd quickly purchased clothes for Nico at the Paphos airport, as he'd been wearing only swim trunks and a towel when they'd left Polis, but now Nico and George had only what was on their backs.

Ruth turned to George as they walked. "I need to make a phone call. And you need clothes, toothbrushes, that sort of thing?" George simply stared at her, tight-lipped, so she continued, trying to sound upbeat. "So I'll make my phone call and get us a place to stay, whilst you and Nico go shopping?" They exited the airport and entered the tube station, and George had finally had enough.

He turned to Nico and pointed toward the wall. He tried to speak gently to his son, but Ruth heard the thinly-veiled rage beneath his words. "Nico, please stand over there where I can see you. I need to talk to Ruth alone."

Nico did as his father asked and leant on the wall with his eyes down, gazing at his feet. Ruth watched him shuffling his feet against the dirty tiles, and she waited for the attack that she knew was coming. George took her chin and turned her face toward him, not violently, but firmly. She could feel the intensity of his fury even through his hand.

"Now, you'll tell me." George said, his eyes flashing. "You'll tell me what this is all about."

Ruth was frightened of him, but she also felt a kind of defiance. She wanted to say, _I'm angry as well, this is happening to me too, you know_. But she held her tongue, and took a deep breath before beginning. "As I told you before, I was a member of the British Security Services ..."

George cut her off with a sneer, "Ah, yes, Ruth the spy."

Now Ruth's eyes flashed, and she said, irritated, "Do you want to hear this or not?"

With narrowed eyes, George stared back at her. He said simply, "I want to hear it."

Ruth looked past George toward the tunnel in the distance, unable to meet his eyes. "I told you I had to leave England because of my work, and that was the truth." George made a slight snorting noise and Ruth turned sharply back to him. "I simply didn't tell you what type of work it was."

Raising his voice, George said, "I thought you worked for a bloody _bank_, Ruth!"

Ruth tilted her head and looked toward Nico, who was now watching them, distressed. She whispered, hoping George would take the hint, "I never told you I worked for a bank, I told you ..."

His voice went cold as ice, as he hissed, softly, "Enough. We'll simply leave it that you've led me and my young son... " he inclined his head toward Nico, "... into some kind of danger, shall we? So, where do you lead us now?"

She reeled back a bit, almost as if she'd been hit, and finally, Ruth felt the tears begin to form. She shook her head, and said, so softly that it was almost to herself, "I never meant to ... I'm so sorry ... I didn't ... " Her voice trailed off, and now a tear did fall, but George made no move toward her, gave her no comfort, no touch. He stood, watching her, and Ruth realised he had no feeling of compassion whatsoever for her. His eyes held only anger.

When she didn't answer, he began to turn toward Nico, "Okay, then, we go home ..." but Ruth reached out and, with surprising strength, grabbed his arm and held him there.

"You can't go home! Not until we find out what they want!" She lowered her voice again, "They'll follow you, George."

"_Who_ will follow us? Who are these people?" He looked around him, and pointed to a man walking by, "Is it _him_?" Then to another, "Or _him_?" He looked wildly back at Ruth, "Why don't we talk to them, find out what they want ..."

"Stop ..." Ruth said the word quietly, almost absently. She was looking past George at the walkway from which they'd just emerged, and she saw the two men in the distance. _Indian men_. Ruth walked past George and went to Nico. She put her hand out to him and he took it. The train was beginning to rumble into the station.

"Come, Nico. We're going." She looked back through the crowds, and Ruth thought the men hadn't seen her yet. As she walked past George, she said resolutely, "We need to get on this train."

George exhaled loudly, but after a quick glance behind him, he followed her.

* * *

Harry was trying very hard to determine what time it was. It was certainly afternoon, so it had been at least twenty-four hours since he'd had his "chips down conversation" with Viktor Sarkiisian. Now Viktor was dead, and Harry had no idea whether his team on the Grid was aware that Amish Mani was involved.

He'd been sitting in the small, hard chair for so long, he could feel his back beginning to cramp, and although he was extremely fatigued, he stood to take another turn around the room. He raised his still-bound hands above his head and groaned softly as the stiffness changed into the conflicting pain and pleasure brought on by the extension of his muscles. He rolled his head on his neck, and groaned again. Then he began the walk that he'd made countless times in the hours he'd been left alone in this room with his thoughts.

He looked again for the cameras and microphones he thought must be here. Very small, very easily hidden, but lost in the breaks of form and colour in the old and dirty walls. Malcolm would be able to find them, certainly, Harry thought, and he allowed himself a brief, sad smile.

_What is Mani waiting for?_ As soon as he asked the question, he was afraid he knew the answer. _Ruth_. And on the heels of that thought came, _Ruth, married_. _Ruth, a mother_. _Ruth, no longer my Ruth_. It was a fresh pain each time the memory of Mani's words took hold. And Harry knew that he had to get control of himself.

He was dehydrated, hungry, and exhausted. And now, feeling shattered by this news. Harry stopped walking and allowed himself a moment to lean against the wall. What had Ruth said about Mani when they were in Baghdad? _It was as if he were looking through my clothes, Harry, as if he could see somehow how much we meant to each other._

If Mani knew, then perhaps he was simply using Ruth's name to put Harry into this panic. Perhaps Mani had no idea how to find Ruth. _No, he'd said Cyprus. He knows where she is_. Harry walked back and sat down heavily into his chair.

The throbbing in his head began again, and he closed his eyes, his face leant into his joined hands. Suddenly, inexplicably, the vision that he'd seen during his interrogation returned. Ruth on the carousel, one hand holding Catherine's, and the other lightly on Graham's back. The children were going up and down, but she held steady between them.

If what Mani had said was true, she was a mother now, with her own child. They'd talked about children, hadn't they? They'd decided against it, because of their jobs. But that would no longer apply to Ruth. _Married. A mother. Lost to me. My Ruth. My dear love_.

Harry was so tired and broken, that he stopped caring about the cameras or the microphones. He was silent at first, but then the muffled sound of his crying could be heard by those who were listening, and although his head was in his hands, they could clearly see the shaking of his weary shoulders.

* * *

Ruth looked like any other Londoner, except for the slightly browner skin. Those who noticed might have thought that perhaps she'd been on holiday, to Bermuda or to the Greek islands.

But as she walked the busy street, Ruth was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. The last time she'd been in London, she'd been within Harry's protective arms, and so completely, utterly in love. They never would have walked out on a public street this way, because they'd had a secret. Now, as she walked alone, Ruth's heart was racing. She kept her head down as much as possible, and tried not to make eye contact with anyone around her. She was terrified that she would either see someone who would recognise her, or that she would sense someone following her before she could get to a telephone to call in to the Grid.

Ruth had loved London, and even through her fear, she still felt the city's energy, its people, the excitement of its activity. And as she felt it, another piece of Ruth Evershed edged back into her. The part she had anaesthetised began to come alive again, and she felt it fall into place.

But with that piece of her, Ruth inevitably felt Harry's presence swell inside her. He'd never left her memory, in all the time she'd been away, but now she'd walked back into his world, and he was closer, more immediate somehow. She almost expected to see him emerge from the crowd, moving toward her, his hands swinging easily at his side, his face wearing the peculiar mix of guardedness and intimacy that always seemed to belong only to her ...

Ruth looked down again, as her eyes began to mist. She knew now, beyond a doubt, that it would never work with George. Better to be alone than to try to find a cheap imitation of what had once lived in her heart.

It wasn't because George was angry with her. And she knew that he was, in fact, blindingly angry. It wasn't even because he was reacting badly in an unspeakably difficult situation, which he was. Ruth knew it couldn't work because she simply didn't love him, and she never would. She would go to her grave alone if she had to, and she would do what she had counselled herself to do since practically the first day she'd set eyes on Harry Pearce. She'd be grateful for what she'd had with Harry, however limited in time it may have been, with the understanding that so many never find even that much.

She would sort out this mess, whatever it was, and she would say goodbye to George. The harder task would be to let go of Nico, but Ruth had no doubt that George would find a lovely woman more like Christina to share his life with and to be a good Cypriot mother to Nico. A woman without a past, one who could be completely honest with him, one who could, finally, love him. And, in the end, that would be the best thing for Nico.

After this was all over, George would get on a plane back to Cyprus. Ruth would board a plane as well, but she would fly in the opposite direction. Perhaps she would finally find her way to New York, or to Australia, or New Zealand. She'd learnt her lesson with George. Unless she could tell the truth about her life, it made no sense to try and drag someone else into it. The only person who knew her whole self was Harry, and he was the only one who would ever know.

Ruth knew that she would always love Harry, but she assumed he had moved on. She'd flown into the sun with him, and even if he'd forgotten her, Ruth would never forget. It was real, and would be a part of her forever. Today, or tomorrow, or the next day, they would see each other again. There would be some awkwardness, this would all get cleared up, and she would leave. Forever.

She found the red telephone box, opened the door, and entered. For a moment, Ruth stood, listening to her own breath, trying to calm her heart. For all of her brave thoughts as she'd walked, now she was a mass of nerves. She was only one tube station from Thames House, and was about to connect herself through a series of wires and electrical impulses to the room in which it was likely that Harry stood. She picked up the receiver, but her hands were shaking, so she closed her eyes for just a moment to collect herself.

And unbidden, through her closed eyes, she saw him, sitting behind his desk. He looked up and took a deep breath, his eyebrows raised in a question. He stood, and she walked toward his office. His arms went out to her, and she folded into them. Suddenly, Ruth was there so completely that her eyes filled with tears, standing alone in a red telephone box on a busy London street. It was the missing piece, the feeling that had kept Cyprus and Paris from being her home.

It was Harry. Harry was her home. But she would leave him again, and find a new one. She had to.

Ruth quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks, and pressed in the numbers that were as easily remembered as her own name. She said the words that had been in her head since the day Zaf had given them to her on the cold docks so long ago. The words that she was to speak if ever she was in trouble and needed MI5's protection.

"Echo. Foxtrot. Lima. Lady Lazarus."

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETY-THREE**

* * *

On the other end of the line, Ruth heard Malcolm, lovely Malcolm, his voice still so familiar, even after all this time. She could hear a short gasp of surprise, but then he spoke, professionally, strictly according to the book. "Echo. Foxtrot. Lima. Lady Lazarus. Copy."

She continued the required message. "Code Ten. Please advise."

Malcolm pulled down his list of safe houses, and quickly chose the one he thought would be best, "SE16. Proceed directly." He was about to put the phone down, but he remembered what Stavros had said, and he asked, "Erm…how many?"

Ruth paused, and said, "Three." Malcolm thought he heard sadness and a tinge of guilt in her voice. He didn't want to leave her like that, so he added something that was strictly _not_ according to the book, "Very good to hear from you, Lady Lazarus."

Ruth smiled, and some of her shakiness subsided. "Thanks," she said softly. "Hope to see you soon."

Malcolm hung up the phone and called the safe house, explaining that a woman, and two others, probably a man and child, were on arrival. The woman would speak the call sign Echo, Foxtrot, Lima.

Malcolm looked out at the Grid in wonder. He was realising that he had just spoken with Ruth Evershed for the first time since he'd been outside the Chapter Room with Harry whilst Davey King waited inside. _How could it be nearly a year?_ Malcolm marveled, as he stood, seemingly paralysed. Ros saw him, and asked, "What is it, Malcolm?"

I've just had a Code Ten." _So_, Ros thought, _someone wants to be brought in_. She tried to think who was currently deep undercover, but Malcolm saved her the trouble. His forehead furrowed slightly and he said, "From Ruth."

Ros was taken aback for a moment, but then she repeated the name, "Ruth." She'd only just asked Malcolm to get in touch with Ruth, and now a Code Ten? In her head, she thought, _Quick work, Malcolm_, but outwardly, Ros simply stared.

Malcolm continued, "She's in trouble. She needs our help."

"Which safe house did you give her?" Ros asked.

"SE16."

Ros took a step toward Malcolm. "Good. You go and meet her there. She'll need to see a friendly face." Ros gave him a sad smile, also knowing that he would probably be the best one to break the news to Ruth about Harry's abduction. Ros hadn't shared all that Harry told her the night that Adam died, but now, as she looked in Malcolm's eyes, Ros could see that he knew about Harry and Ruth as well.

"Talk to Ruth, Malcolm. And then bring her back here. We need to find out why they've taken Harry."

* * *

It wasn't a bad place, as safe houses go, but Ruth, George and Nico were painfully aware of how very different it was from the mountain house on Cyprus. Just this morning, they'd been looking forward to a beautiful, warm day at the beach. And now, they were in London in a duplex with a view of the motorway.

And to top it all off, there were thunderclouds outside, and it was raining. The clouds had come in fast, although Ruth thought this was one of those London storms that moved out just as quickly. But for now, she could hear the low rumble and the sound of rain on the windows.

George sat at the small dining table, etching something invisible into its surface with his fingers, his anger still evident in the hard line of his mouth. He and Nico had gone shopping, but George had refused to buy more than one shirt and jumper, as he'd said he wouldn't be here long enough to use them. He was still wearing the khakis that he'd had on when he'd gone to get the wine this morning.

_This morning_. Ruth could hardly connect this day and all its parts. She didn't know what would happen next, but she had to assume that, by now, Malcolm had told Harry she was back in London. She wondered if Harry would come here, and if Malcolm had told him that there were three of them. Ruth wondered so many things. But she was exhausted from worrying and wondering. It would be what it would be, and if Harry was the one to walk through the door, she would deal with her emotions then.

Nico stood with his head under the sheer curtains and watched the rain as it pelted the cars on the road. His voice was sullen, and Ruth was surprised to hear him sound slightly spoilt. "I don't like it here." But then Ruth heard the sweet boy that she loved, and her heart clenched. "I just want to go home."

George had hardly spoken a word to Ruth since they'd boarded the train at the airport. He'd simply followed her silently, brooding, and when he did speak, it was in a cold, staccato voice. Now he turned to Nico, echoing the boy's feelings, and in the process, lashing out again at Ruth. "We _can't_ go home."

Ruth looked down at her hands, and a frown wrinkled her forehead. She didn't actually know if she _could_ feel any more guilt than she was feeling now, although she sensed that George would somehow like her to. She wanted nothing more than to tell him to go back to his beautiful house on his lovely, uncomplicated island. She could stay and deal with this herself. But she knew that would be too dangerous, so she held her tongue.

They were innocents, really. Unskilled in how evil people could be, not knowing how those in this business died horrible deaths at the hands of others. It was incongruous to think of Nico and George in this position, in this place, and Ruth began to feel her own anger increase. She directed it, of course, toward the Indian men who had started it all, but then, her resentment seeped and spread, until it encompassed the whole of the Services. Finally, it reached the one who held most of her emotions on this very emotional day. _Harry_.

Her anger wasn't rational or logical, but it grew, and it blamed. It asked why Harry had never gotten in touch with her, and why he had allowed her to find another life and pull these innocent people into danger. But most of all, in the depths of her heart, Ruth asked why Harry hadn't loved her as much as he'd said he would. _Forever, come what may, until the end of time._ _Liar_.

Nico turned away from the window, and looked toward George through the sheer curtain. He still wanted to go home, and couldn't understand why his father had said they couldn't. "Why not?"

Nico lifted the curtain and gazed at his father with the soft, open-faced look that Ruth so loved, and again, she felt the rage expand, quietly, inside her heart. She wanted to tell Nico why they couldn't go back to Cyprus. She thought that he was mature enough and strong enough to listen, but she also knew that George wasn't keen on her making, or even participating in, decisions about Nico's future. So Ruth clamped her lips shut. This was not the time to assert herself.

George took a breath, and for a moment, Ruth thought he might tell Nico the truth. But then he said, "Go upstairs and play, Nico. I'll be up in a minute." Nico walked past her, and the love she felt for him made her face fall naturally into a smile. He didn't smile back. He went to the stairs, and did what his father had told him.

"Any ideas, Ruth? How best to explain this to him?" George's questions were simple enough, and very reasonable, but his tone held an unmistakeable accusation.

Ruth could only think of one thing to say, and she wanted to say it over and over. "I'm so sorry." And she _was_ so sorry, about so many things. But in this moment, the one thing she was sorriest about was that she hadn't listened to her own heart. She was bitterly regretting the fact that she had allowed George into her life, knowing that she could never love him. Right now, Ruth would do almost anything to turn back the clock and _not_ make the decision to move in with George. To not have fooled herself into thinking there could be a life for her in his house, or his bed.

George had more to say, and she couldn't begrudge him the blame he wanted to place on her. She was placing it on herself as well. He spread his hands, incredulous, "You couldn't tell me?"

Ruth couldn't think of a reason that sounded logical, so she told the honest truth. "I thought there'd never be any need."

Of course, this was an opening for George's righteous indignation, and he leapt on it. "Truth is an end in itself. It requires no other justification." Ruth couldn't keep herself from a knowing laugh, as she thought, _He's so naive, really. How can I expect him to understand?_ She shook her head, and felt further away from George in this moment than she ever had.

She looked at him, sadly, and spoke to him as one might to a child. "How much you have to learn."

George heard her patronising tone, and his rage welled up. "I don't want to learn your moral values."

Ruth simply glared at him. She was ready to tell him how often his peaceful life had been saved by the British Security Services and others like it around the world. How often the delicate balance of power had to be soothed or wrestled to the ground by the very "moral values" on which he was passing judgment right now.

Before she was able to allow free rein to her own righteous indignation, the door opened.

She stood, and she looked into the sweet, wide, and vaguely surprised eyes of Malcolm Wynn-Jones. Ruth's heart swelled, as he brought everything that was good about her past into this cold, accusatory room. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and have a good cry.

Instead, she smiled warmly, and said, "Hello, Malcolm."

Malcolm hadn't smiled yet. He still looked as if he was seeing a ghost. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"No." _Nor did I, Malcolm._ Ruth was painfully aware that George was still in the room, behind her, and that she should be introducing the two of them. She thought she should want to include George in this moment, but she didn't.

Ruth stood between her two lives, in a sort of vacuum, unwilling to blend the two. She needed to bask for just a moment longer in the warmth of Malcolm's gaze, in the familiarity that he was offering. Malcolm knew about her love for Harry, and Harry's for her. He knew about the letters, and had probably read some of them. The feeling of acknowledgement washed over her, and she found herself reeling slightly. But in such a very good way.

Finally, she turned to George. She smiled genuinely in the face of his glare. "George?" she said, now more confident in Malcolm's presence, "I'd like you to meet a very dear friend of mine. Malcolm Wynn-Jones."

Malcolm now smiled and turned to George with an outstretched hand. At first George didn't want to take it, but then his natural sense of politeness overtook his anger, and he stood and gave Malcolm's hand a perfunctory shake. George looked quickly at Ruth, raising his eyebrows in suspicion, and she could see the question there, _Is this the man you love?_ She frowned and shook her head, just slightly.

George looked back at Malcolm, and then said suddenly, "I need to see about my son." He moved quickly past Ruth and Malcolm and climbed the stairs.

Malcolm's eyebrows raised slightly, and he looked to the floor. Ruth smiled, and said, "Sorry."

Shaking his head, Malcolm said, "No, no. No need. It's a difficult situation, I'm sure ..." He looked up at her, and gave a small shrug.

Ruth smiled, and even managed a short laugh. "Yes, and that's a bit of an understatement, Malcolm."

She inclined her head toward the balcony, and Malcolm followed her out the door. It had stopped raining, and the air felt fresh after the heat of the flat. After closing the French windows firmly, she said, softly, "I never told him about any of this ... about ... what I used to do ..."

Malcolm took a deep breath, and said simply, "Ah..."

Ruth leant on the railing, "He's not taking it very well."

Malcolm nodded, and said slowly, "Understandable, I suppose. It certainly is hard for ... civilians ... to grasp ..."

Ruth turned and looked deeply into Malcolm's eyes. "I thought I could do it, you know? Turn my back on it completely. To pretend this life never existed. I tried. I tried so hard to forget the work, the Grid, all of you ... " She didn't say Harry's name, but she could see that Malcolm understood. "But in the times that I _did_ forget, when I was able to leave it behind, I was happy, Malcolm. Life was ..."

Malcolm had been in the Services for so long, he was trying to remember what life was like. Then, as he looked out over the street, glistening from the rain, he remembered, "Calm?"

Ruth managed a small laugh. It was so hard for her to describe the push and pull of wanting to forget, and not being able to. "It's like one of those scary dreams when you're taken back to a time and place you thought you'd left completely behind."

Malcolm couldn't restrain himself any longer. He was very fond of Ruth, and it suddenly filled him. He wasn't normally effusive, but he turned to her and gave her a proper smile. "I'm _so_ glad to see you again."

Ruth wanted to say that she was glad to see him as well, but the circumstances simply wouldn't allow it. She looked at him, and then had to look away. Everything was so different. The last time she'd seen him was on the Grid, as Mace's men were leading her away. It seemed a lifetime ago.

And then she thought about Cyprus, and how this day had started. She'd told herself just this morning that she was going to try again to make a go of it with George. She thought of their picnic on the beach. "I left some fresh fish out on the side. It was so hot, they'll be completely ... "

Ruth suddenly thought she might cry. She felt firmly caught between two worlds. No way to return to the one she'd just left, and now she'd been thrust back into the world of her past. She looked down at the roadway, slick and black from the rain, and she felt weary, tired of fighting. "Doesn't really matter any more, I suppose."

Malcolm could clearly see Ruth's sadness, and he hadn't even told her about Harry yet. His heart went out to her, but he knew he had to get her debriefed as quickly as possible. He stepped back from the railing and said, "There's a car waiting. We'll take you straight back to the Grid."

Now Ruth couldn't prevent the smile that involuntarily curled her lips. She was thinking that very soon she would see Harry again, and whilst she dreaded it, she also longed for it. She was very angry with Harry, at the same time she thought she loved him right now more than ever. She was as confused as she could ever remember being, but there was one thing she needed to ask. "How is he, Malcolm?"

Malcolm couldn't meet her eyes, and he released a sigh. Ruth's smile transformed immediately into a frown, accompanied by a furrow in her forehead. She looked back at him, dismayed, "What's happened?"

"Harry's in great danger, Ruth."

Ruth's heart began to pound, as she turned to face him. "What kind of danger, Malcolm?"

Malcolm put his arm out, motioning her to the door. "We'll talk in the car. We need to hurry."

Ruth went inside and quickly got her coat. She called up the stairs to George, "I have to go out." She was met with silence, so she said, sighing, into the air, "I'll be back soon." She followed Malcolm out of the front door to the flat, not knowing what was ahead of her, but feeling a sense of relief at leaving the tension of George behind.

During their drive to Thames House, Ruth sat next to Malcolm in the back seat. She turned to him, and said, "Tell me what's happened, Malcolm."

Malcolm kept his eyes forward as he spoke. "Harry saved us. Again." Now he looked at Ruth. "There was a bomb, nuclear actually, and Harry needed help from the FSB in London. He went there, and he sorted it out. This time it would have been most of Central London up in smoke, including all of us." Malcolm waited for a moment to let it sink in, and then he continued. "He went there, but he didn't come back. Next thing, there's a video posted on the internet of his ... his ..."

Malcolm faltered, and Ruth leant forward in the seat, peering into his eyes. "His what, Malcolm? What was on the video?"

Malcolm sighed, and leapt. "It showed Harry being shot." Her hand went to her mouth, and Malcolm could see the terror in her eyes. And all he could think was, _She still loves him._ Quickly, he said, "We're certain it's a fake. It's not real, Ruth." Ruth breathed again, and sat back against the seat.

After a moment, she turned again. "Where is he?"

Malcolm told her about the Moscow-on-Thames estate and Sarkiisian, and then he explained the SARV connection, and how they'd been on the wrong track for awhile. He shook his head, and said, "As far as where Harry is now, we don't know. We're hoping you can help us."

Ruth was incredulous. "Me? How can I possibly help? I've been away for nearly two years."

"I got your letter, Ruth. The one from Isabelle, about the Indian man who was looking for you." Ruth said a soft, "Ah," and Malcolm continued, "There's a voice on the tape of Harry's ... well, on the tape, and the man is speaking Malayalam."

Ruth's eyes narrowed as she put the pieces together. "So you think that the men who are after me are also the ones holding Harry?"

"We need you to tell us that, Ruth. What could they want from both of you?" Ruth blinked back at Malcolm. She thought she had the answer to his question, but she'd sworn her silence to Harry after their trip to Baghdad. If she had to, she would tell them what she knew, but only if it was absolutely necessary to save Harry.

"So I'm going to the Grid to be debriefed?" Ruth asked. Malcolm nodded.

Ruth nodded back, absently. "How long have they had him?"

"Since yesterday at three o'clock." He looked at his watch. "Nearly twenty-six hours."

Ruth took a deep breath and tried to calm her heart. This had always been her fear for Harry, and she was right back in the middle of it, worrying for his safety. Her voice was soft, and shaky, "Did he see the letter, Malcolm? The one I just sent?"

Malcolm looked away. "No. There wasn't time."

"But the others? He got those?"

"Yes, all of them."

"Thank you for making those letters possible, Malcolm. They were like ... a lifeline ..."

_A lifeline_, Malcolm thought. But now she was married, and a mother. He needed to understand, somehow, so he turned to her and asked, "You have a son now? How old is he?" Malcolm hadn't gotten a complete answer from Stavros, only that there was a child living with them at the mountain house.

Ruth's face softened, and Malcolm saw genuine affection in her eyes. "He's ten. Nico." She saw the frown that began to form at Malcolm's brow, and she smiled, "Of course, he's George's son, but I care for him, very much." Her smile disappeared, and it was replaced with worry. "He's scared, and confused, and ... and ... his father isn't much help right now, I'm afraid."

Malcolm was thinking of Harry, and how devastated he would be once he found out that Ruth had moved on so completely. In fact, he thought it was a blessing of sorts that Harry wasn't here to see George, and Nico, and this new Ruth. Malcolm had no idea how to ask the question that was weighing on him, but he realised he wanted to ask it as much for himself as for Harry. Sarah had been on his mind all day, and the question seemed somehow to pertain to her, as well.

Finally, he just came out with it. "You've started a new life, then?" Ruth turned quickly to him, and Malcolm saw the pain in her eyes.

For a moment, she thought of simply saying, "Yes," but then she looked more deeply at Malcolm. Ruth saw the lovely combination of wisdom and innocence there in his eyes, and she couldn't lie. She looked away, and said, sadly, "I've tried. I've tried so hard, Malcolm. But I can't do it. When this is all over, I won't be going back with George."

She turned to him, and although he was trying to suppress it, Malcolm was smiling, a broad infectious smile. He said, "I'm so glad, and Harry ..."

Ruth cut him off. "I won't be staying here, either, Malcolm. I couldn't bear to be here without ... I can't...even if I were somehow cleared and could stay in England, Harry doesn't want me ... to ... " As her voice trailed off, Malcolm looked at Ruth, probing her eyes. There were tears there, and still, again, he saw love.

Malcolm hardly thought before he spoke. "I shouldn't say this, but I'm going to do it anyway. He still ... he cares for you ... Harry loves you, Ruth. Very much. He's never stopped."

Ruth inhaled sharply as his words sunk in. She'd waited for such a long time, and had wished so desperately to hear that Harry still loved her. With a soft _oh_, she closed her eyes and leant her head back on the seat, trying to catch her breath.

A part of Ruth thought herself ridiculous to be so susceptible to this news, willing to suddenly fall completely back into the dream of a life with Harry, but it happened in a flash, and in her head she said it again, _He still loves me_. Then, the car jostled, and reality descended upon her. Nothing had changed. Harry's reasons for denying his love still existed, whatever they were. She had still been left on Cyprus in confusion and bitter loneliness for nearly a year.

A frown creased Ruth's forehead as she opened her eyes and turned to Malcolm, her eyes pleading, "But why, then? Why didn't he come to Cyprus, or write? Why did he turn his back on me, Malcolm?" She stopped suddenly, her voice choked.

"I can't say anything more, it's not my place. I shouldn't have said what I did, really." Malcolm turned and looked out the window at the rain that was beginning to fall again.

Malcolm seemed angry and Ruth couldn't understand why, but he'd given her a gift and she was so grateful for it. She regained her voice, and spoke softly, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for saying it."

Malcolm was mumbling toward the window, and Ruth couldn't quite hear it, but she thought she heard him say, crossly, under his breath, _Bloody job_.

* * *

Ruth stepped through the doors, and felt she was stepping back in time. There were no more pods, simply glass doors. Other things looked different as well, but also the same. Different furniture, but the same activity. And she simply couldn't help it -- the moment she walked onto the Grid, she looked to her right, and into Harry's office. _Still the fishbowl_. Although the rest of the Grid had changed quite a lot, Harry's office looked the same.

It took only a moment, and the memories flooded back to her, of sitting in his chair, standing at his door, and especially that last day, when they'd talked about Maudsley, hidden from the rest of the Grid. His hand had been at her necklace, and her hand was on top of his. It was the evening he'd called her a mule for the first time, the evening they'd stolen a kiss behind the column in the car park below Thames House. The evening she'd gone to Maudsley's house. The last evening she'd been in this building, before Oliver Mace had escorted her from the Grid, from MI5, from her life.

But Harry's office was empty now. He was somewhere else, probably tired, hungry, thirsty, perhaps in pain. And she could barely bring herself to say the rest, even in her head_. Perhaps dead_. Ruth turned away and looked around her, aware that she was feeling some kind of shock at being back here. There were people and voices everywhere, but no one knew her. Only Malcolm, who now stood a bit away from her after being handed a report that he was now reading.

"Ruth. I'm Lucas North. I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances." Ruth turned to see a very tall man with angular features walking toward her. He was a complete stranger, but when he said his name, she recognised him as a former officer who had been held in a Russian prison for years before Ruth had even joined the team at MI5. Harry had talked about him with respect, and had called him a friend.

He looked at her with warmth, but by now, Ruth had left the niceties of polite conversation with strangers far behind her. She couldn't even manage a smile as she asked, "Why was I attacked?"

Lucas understood. He nodded, and took her arm gently. "We're going to find that out, Ruth." He pointed the way toward the briefing room, although he realised she probably knew very well where it was. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Are you hungry?"

Finally, Ruth acknowledged him with a small smile of apology. "Yes, please. Tea would be very good." She almost started toward the kitchenette to get it, and marvelled at how quickly she felt she knew this place. But she felt a pang as she realised that the faces she wished so much to see weren't here. _No Adam. No Zaf. And no Harry_.

Suddenly, Ruth felt a hand on her shoulder, and she heard a voice that she very much recognised. "Ruth." She turned to see Jo, and without thinking, the two of them enveloped each other in a hug. Ruth couldn't express how good it felt. She hadn't been held since all this began this morning, and until this moment, she hadn't realised how much she needed physical contact. Jo was warm, familiar, and obviously very glad to see her.

"Jo." Ruth looked at her and said, "So good to see you."

Jo laughed softly, "And you! I just found out today that you were still ..."

Ruth smiled sadly, "Alive? Yes, I know. Sorry about that."

Squeezing her arm, Jo said, "It was _very_ good news." Lucas was walking back now with Ruth's tea, and Jo knew they had to get to the meeting room. She turned to Ruth and said, "We'll have time talk later. So much has happened ..."

Ruth saw a darkness pass over Jo's fresh, pretty face, and she reached up to the younger woman's shoulder. "I know." Unspoken were two names_. Adam and Zaf_. "I want to talk with you, too." Ruth could see that Jo had changed, matured. There was a new sadness in her eyes, a sort of latent terror that Ruth understood, because she had seen it in her own mirror. Ruth felt very drawn to this new Jo, and vowed that no matter what happened in the next few days, she would find some time to spend with her. She felt that talking about Zaf and Adam might finally offer some of the closure that had been so elusive.

But not now. Ruth knew that now was all about finding Harry, so she turned to follow Lucas and Jo to the meeting room. Someone touched her arm, and she turned to see Malcolm. He had a strange look on his face, and she tilted her head at him. "What is it, Malcolm?"

He looked suddenly embarrassed, but he said, "I was just wondering if you'd mind if I went back to the safe house and kept an eye on your ... on Dr Constantinou, and Nico. There's not really anything for me to do here, and I thought Nico might like to play a game or something. That they might be ... erm ... feeling a bit ... adrift, here in London."

"Oh, Malcolm, that's very kind of you." Ruth was so grateful that she reached her hand up and touched his cheek, which caused him to blush furiously.

"Well, I'm not very experienced with children, but I do know games, and I understand children are fond of games ..." His voice trailed off, and he looked quite nonplussed.

Ruth said softly, "It would ease my mind considerably to know you were there. Thank you, Malcolm."

* * *

Harry knew the signs of dehydration, and he was beginning to feel them as they took hold of his fatigued body. He was no longer hungry, and was alternately slightly chilled and then flushed. His mouth was dry, his lips were parched, and he was finding it hard to push the constant desire for water from his mind.

Of course, it didn't help that every time Mani came in to talk to him, he taunted Harry, drinking almost an entire bottle each time. The last time, the bottle had been covered in drops of condensation, as if it had been on ice. Harry had watched as the large drops gained momentum and fell from the outside of the plastic bottle to the dusty floor.

But Mani had seen Harry's eyes dart to the floor, and then he'd let Harry imagine leaning over and lifting the scarce, dirty drops to his lips once he was alone. Just before he'd left, Mani had smiled at Harry, and had taken his expensive, well-polished Italian leather shoe and spread the drops of water, watching them evaporate. He'd wagged his finger at Harry and laughed softly, saying, "No, no, no, Harry." Then, as he always did, Mani had pushed back his chair, loudly, suddenly, scraping the floor with the noise that was newly painful to Harry's head each time Mani performed the ritual.

Now, as Harry sat, he tried to figure how long it had been since he'd seen Mani, and he couldn't. All he knew was that it was still light outside. When the sun went down, he could begin to calculate another day. What was worrisome to Harry was that he was beginning not to care.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Harry looked up. This time, Mani didn't come into the room, but only stood there, one hand jauntily on the knob, the other on the door jamb. He called across the room as if he were giving Harry a wonderful piece of information.

"Harry! Good news! Ruth is back in town." Mani waited for Harry to react, but seeing nothing, he continued. "She's here, in London, and she's brought her husband and her son with her. Thought you would want to know."

Mani started to close the door, but then turned back, as if he had just thought of something else. His voice went lower, and became almost conspiratorial. "He's very handsome, her husband. Tall. Dark. _Young_." Mani paused, and then, shaking his head, he said, "Not like you at all." Then he slammed the door, and was gone.

Harry sighed, and let his head drop nearly to his chest. He didn't think he'd ever been this tired in his entire life. _Not like you at all_. A wound began to open up, as real and as painful as if Mani had actually taken a knife and thrust it between Harry's ribs. Harry could almost feel the blood flow and spread from his heart, like the blood he had washed off of his face and out of his hair last night. But this time it wasn't Sarkiisian's blood, but his own.

_Oh, my Ruth. I always said you wouldn't be alone for very long_. _How could I ever have imagined I could hold someone as young and as beautiful as you? _

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR**

* * *

Ruth walked into the meeting room and came face-to-face with Ros Myers. When she'd left London, she'd certainly felt less than friendly toward Ros, but her memories were now tinged with Harry's stories of what had happened since. Ruth could see that Ros was steeled for coldness, but Ruth surprised her by simply saying, softly, "Ros." She gave her a half-smile that offered an olive branch, and Ros took it.

Raising her eyebrows, Ros returned the smile, and said, "Ruth."

Ruth tilted her head, and said, still smiling, "Your house key was in the pocket of your coat. I assume you got another. I seem to have misplaced it." She grimaced slightly. "Erm ... and your coat."

Ros laughed softly, and said, "Good thing I know how to pick a lock, then." She motioned for Ruth to sit down. "And I've got other coats."

It was all they needed to say, but it said so much.

Lucas sat at the end of the table, and started right in. "Hypothesis? Whoever has Harry went after Ruth as well. The South Asian appearance of her attackers would certainly suggest that."

Ruth had determined that she wouldn't discuss Baghdad unless absolutely necessary, and she wanted to find out where Lucas was in his investigation so far. So she played dumb, and asked, "Why?"

Jo, sitting across from her, answered Ruth's question. "They're holding him because they want some information. The SARV red herring was just to buy them time."

Ros continued the thought. "Information that you and Harry share."

As Ruth looked across at Ros, she could still see Harry's face, close to hers, as they lay in bed talking at the Baghdad hotel. _I'm only going to tell you, Ruth. No one else. There's no other person in the world that I trust as I trust you, my love. And I only tell you this in case anything ever happens to me. The uranium is in Norfolk_.

Ruth kept her face open, and hoped she was convincing. "I don't know what that could be."

Ros was too skilled at interrogation to believe what she was hearing. Instead, she trusted what she was seeing, which was that Ruth was holding back. "What did Harry ever share with you that was for your ears only? That no one else could ever know? That would be worth all this effort?"

She tried, but Ruth couldn't keep up the pretence. Her eyes darted left and right, and finally, she simply shook her head, sighing.

Lucas tilted his head toward her, and asked softly, "Ruth?"

All of Ruth's reserve fell away, and she looked up at Lucas. She knew that if it could help Harry, she had to tell. "Baghdad. I think this might be about Baghdad."

Gently, Ros asked, "What happened in Baghdad?"

Ruth turned to her, and said, slowly, "Harry came across a clandestine operation there to smuggle weapons-grade uranium into the country and then discover it. Vindicate the war."

Lucas frowned. "Harry was involved in that?"

Ruth turned to him quickly. There was a tinge of pride in her voice, and a healthy dose of defence, in case Lucas should think that Harry was caught up in anything sinister. "Harry _stopped_ it."

A flash of what Ruth thought was relief seemed to pass over Lucas' face. "So who else was involved?"

Taking herself back to Baghdad in her mind, Ruth remembered the dinner they had all shared, and the players that sat around the table. "Elements of the CIA, some cowboys from Six, and a freelance chap from the Indian Intelligence Bureau." Ruth looked across at Ros and Jo. "It was completely below the radar. When Harry discovered it, he went straight to the top and it was quickly stopped."

Jo leant forward. "But why now? What do they want from Harry now?"

Ruth paused, and then said, "The uranium, I should think. We got it out again. Brought it here."

Now Ros understood. "And Harry knows where it is, and he told you as back up."

Ruth sighed. There was so much more to it than that, and she had the feeling, looking into Ros' eyes, that she understood. "Harry was the only person other than the Americans who knew where it was. So yes, he told me."

Ros left to speak to the Home Secretary, and Ruth continued with the debrief. Lucas stood and began to pace as he asked questions. "So, Ruth, tell us whatever you can about the three men involved."

Ruth asked for a glass of water, which Jo brought to her. She took a long sip, and told them what she remembered. "Amish Mani was the freelancer from the IIB who stole the uranium in the first place. He was well-dressed, seemed to consider himself a player. I believe he's the one who was looking for me in Paris, and I'm certain it was his men who came to my house on Cyprus."

Lucas stopped pacing, and turned to her. "And the man from CIA?"

Ruth looked up at him. "The CIA guy was Libby McCall . Horrible man."

Lucas knew him, so needed no description. "He's been here for a few years. He's now on the point of retiring."

Ruth nodded. "He sided with Harry, in the end. Once it became clear the plan wouldn't go ahead, there was a lot of shape-shifting taking place."

Jo asked, "And the MI6 guy at the dinner?"

Ruth shook her head slightly, "Didn't know him. He used the name Ronnie." Jo looked up at Lucas, as both now realised that the same MI6 agent who had led them on the SARV wild goose chase was involved in Harry's disappearance. Ruth gave Jo an ironic smile, "Also wriggled around afterwards suggesting he'd never really supported it."

Jo pulled the photo of Stephen Hillier out of the file folder under her hands, and she placed it in front of Ruth. "That Ronnie?"

Ruth looked into the face of the man who had sat across from her at dinner in Baghdad. She swallowed hard, remembering, and then she nodded. "That's him."

* * *

"Thanks, I very much appreciate it." Malcolm put down the phone and smiled. Poor Nico had been terribly bored in the duplex, so Malcolm had arranged a new safe house for Ruth and her family, one with a garden where the boy could play. The thought gave Malcolm a wonderful sense of well-being. Even in the middle of the chaos and helplessness of Harry's predicament, at least the child could be safe and relatively happy.

He'd come back from the safe house after playing backgammon with Nico for a little over an hour, and had run into Ruth just as she was leaving the Grid. He'd told her that he thought Nico might have a future as an analyst, and Ruth had smiled affectionately, and thanked him. Malcolm had also told her that he was finding them a better place, one with a garden, and that the escort would come to the duplex as soon as possible to see that they made the transfer safely.

Malcolm truly took pleasure in having spent time with the boy, and he could understand completely why Ruth was so fond of him. Nico was very bright, and Malcolm had explained not only the rules of the game, but he'd also passed on some tips about possible dice combinations and the risk analysis involved in games of chance.

Of course, after being chastised by George, Malcolm hadn't phrased it that way to Nico. Although he wasn't very used to children, Malcolm did learn rather quickly what was the best way to talk to a ten-year-old, and he thought Nico had enjoyed the game. The boy had smiled frequently, and had even laughed several times.

George, however, was another story. He'd brooded in the corner, and Malcolm had found him somewhat sullen and prone to sarcasm. As Malcolm thought neither was a particularly attractive trait in a person, he'd talked a great deal more with Nico than he had with his father.

At one point, George had asked, "Wouldn't it be possible to get a house with a garden at least? So the boy can play?"

Malcolm had told him he would try, and indeed, he'd found them a very nice place, much larger, and with a back yard where they could kick a ball around. Malcolm was rather pleased with himself as he stood to brew a fresh cup of tea.

Jo walked toward him from the meeting room. "Malcolm, where's Ruth?"

"Gone home to be with her husband and step-son." Malcolm started to turn away for his tea, and then he turned back, thinking he should tell Jo that they would be in a different safe house. "Actually, I've just changed her location."

Jo frowned, and asked, "Why?"

"The boy was climbing up the walls, he was so bored. I've organised her a new safe house with a garden at least."

Jo looked concerned. "Did you put that through the system?"

Malcolm couldn't imagine why anyone would object, but he heard a tone of concern in Jo's voice. "Yes, was there any reason I shouldn't?"

Shrugging, Jo said, "It's just, we're being extra cautious.

Now Malcolm was becoming concerned. "Nobody told me there was an internal risk."

Jo said, "Well, there may not be. All the same, we should call her. We're afraid that Hillier has access to the safe house system and may compromise us. You gave Ruth a secure mobile, yes?" Malcolm nodded, and Jo turned to find Lucas. "Call her, please, and tell her to wait at the duplex. She's not to open the door to anyone but Lucas, or me. We're going over there."

Malcolm pushed in the mobile number, and heard it ring.

Back at the duplex, Ruth looked at the screen and saw that it was Malcolm. She started to press the button to answer, and George turned to her angrily, "Please, not now! We need to talk, Ruth. Turn that thing off. You still owe us a _little_ of your time."

Ruth stared at the screen on the mobile as it continued to ring. She'd been gone for hours, and had just walked back in the door. It was probably important, but she had to draw the line somewhere. She nodded, and shut off her phone, saying, "Yes. Yes, I do."

George didn't even bother to keep his voice low in deference to Nico, who was standing across from them. "We cannot stay here! In this pokey little flat, practically next to a motorway."

Ruth was glad that Malcolm had given her the answer. "They've already got us a new location sorted." As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Ruth forced a smile, only too happy to have the discussion be over. "It's probably them now. This whole thing is only ... temporary. They'll have found us somewhere much ... nicer."

She went to the door and was greeted by two officers with the appropriate identification. They were MI6, but that wasn't surprising, as the safe house system was used by both branches. Ruth was so grateful to be going somewhere that would please George and Nico, she wasn't of a mind to ask many questions, in any case.

They were driven to a lovely area, and instead of a high-rise duplex, it was a family home, just like any other on the block. It had a beautiful stained-glass inset in the front door that reminded Ruth very much of the one she'd had in her own London home. She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped in and saw the wood floors, the intricately-turned banister, and the traditional, homey furniture.

It was serene, and cosy, and she actually saw a smile cross George's face. As Nico ran to the garden in back, they followed, and they stood on the porch and watched him run around the perimeter of the yard, laughing. George turned to her, and just a bit of warmth came through his anger as he said, "Thank you."

This was her friend, the George that she had first known, and Ruth felt a small pang at what she would have to do once this was all over. She was still committed to leaving him, but for the first time since she'd decided that it was what she had to do, Ruth was feeling remorse.

"Ms Evershed?" Ruth turned, and one of the officers who had brought them here was standing behind her.

"Yes?"

"You're needed again at Thames House. Ms Myers has asked for you."

Ruth turned to George and shrugged. He gave her a thin smile and shook his head. "Go. Do whatever you have to do so that we can go home." He looked at Nico, who was happily tossing a football in the air and kicking it, and George's face softened again. "We'll be fine, Ruth. Go."

She took one more look at George, and said, "I'll be back soon," and she turned and followed the two men. They walked out to the car, and she sat in the back. Instead of sitting in the front seat, the second man walked around and got in the back seat with her. Before she had a chance to wonder why, the straps were clamped onto her wrists, and they were driving away.

In a panic, she turned and said, "Where are you taking me? Who are you?"

Her voice echoed back to her in the silence of the car. Neither of the men said a word.

* * *

It was still light outside. The sun had travelled in and out behind clouds all day, and Harry had heard rain on the windows at times, but now it seemed to be clear. Harry wasn't sure why it mattered, but he needed to feel the comfort of orientation, the sense of time and place.

He wasn't certain how long it had been since Mani had stood at the door and told him Ruth was in London, but he thought it might have been between one or two hours. He had worn himself out wondering what that meant, if anything.

If she was back in London, she would have gone to the Grid. It was the only place she could truly be safe. Why she had come back, even if in fact she had, was a mystery to him, and there were far too many scenarios for him to make any progress, blind and deaf as he was in this room. Finally, he had allowed his exhausted mind a rest, and had stopped trying to understand.

Harry heard the door again, and turned his head toward it. He tried to arm himself for more of Mani's taunting with the water bottle, more of his vulgarities and innuendoes, but Harry found that his reserves were almost depleted. It was getting to the point where it didn't matter what Mani said. He was simply too weary to care.

Mani stepped through the door, still in the suit and tie, looking every inch the businessman. He walked into the room, but he wasn't alone. There was someone behind him. In an instant, Harry felt every cell in his body react, and he knew without a doubt who it was. He couldn't see her yet, but he felt her. _Ruth. My Ruth_.

In that moment, Harry understood again how connected his heart was to hers. He could close his eyes and still see her, still sense her presence. She was a part of him, always, and forever. But he didn't close his eyes, he kept them riveted on the small figure in the shadows, moving toward him. His mouth twitched slightly, involuntarily, as he used every ounce of control he had to hold back the tide of emotion that was surging through him.

He knew he was being watched. Mani's eyes were recording every movement, looking for weakness, searching for a crack in his exterior. A moment ago, Harry hadn't cared for his safety, but now, nothing mattered more. Now it wasn't only his own life that hung in the balance, it was also the life of the person dearest to him, as even now, she emerged from the shadows.

She wore blue. Midnight blue. Her face was grave, and indescribably beautiful. For all of the times that Harry had imagined seeing Ruth again, this particular circumstance had never entered his mind. But his heart was as full as he'd imagined, and he was as grateful for the sight of her as he'd known he would be. And despite his fervent wish that she could be somewhere safe, miles away from this room, the fact that he was this close to her again filled Harry with a sense of perfection, of _rightness,_ that he'd not felt since he'd kissed her goodbye in the early morning mists of Dover.

She was his love, but she was now in desperate trouble. Because of him, because he'd taken her to Baghdad. He'd deprived himself of Ruth for all this time in order to keep her safe, and now here they were anyway, both in danger. As he watched her walk solemnly toward him, Harry's regret for the time lost now nearly matched the love he felt, and that was immeasurable.

And suddenly, she was seated across from him, her eyes locked on his. So exquisite, her eyes, with just a hint of moisture, communicating with him as they always had. Unspeakably sad, telling him of so much pain, so many lonely hours, her deep hurt, and thousands of unanswered questions.

Harry felt he was looking in a mirror, as her eyes held what he, too, was thinking. _Is it too late? Have we gone too far? Is it broken beyond repair?_

They were both, of course, realists. Harry could see that she was angry, and Ruth could see that he was frightened. Harry knew that she had another in her life, and Ruth felt that he had abandoned her. Harry understood completely the danger they were in, and Ruth remembered her promise to go as far away from him as possible. All of these thoughts hung in the air between them, and in truth, both feared that too much time had passed.

But at the same moment, could they have spoken it, they would have known that they were each thinking of Ruth's words in her letter so long ago: _I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time._

They'd each held those words in their hearts through the most difficult times alone, and now, wordlessly, they shared them across the short space that separated them. This space that could be spanned by an outstretched arm, or simply be leant across in order to touch cheeks or lips. They longed to touch each other, but couldn't. They couldn't even hint at the longing.

How could they have imagined that when they were finally again this close, they would be bound to stay detached? That they would have to protect each other with silence and the pretence of indifference? That any show of care would endanger the one they loved most in the world?

So they spoke silently, under the remembered constraints of a deeply-held secret. But they saw it clearly, each of them, in the other's eyes. _Love_. Still there. Still stronger than any circumstance. After all this time apart, it shone brilliantly between them.

What Harry and Ruth knew, without a doubt, was that the other still loved. And for one peaceful, heartbreaking moment of clarity, each acknowledged it with their eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE**

* * *

"Friends reunited."

And, with the sound of Mani's voice, the moment passed.

There was still love, and Ruth knew again that it would always be there, like a river flowing deeply underneath everything she thought or did. But in the space of a breath, her mind was clouded by thoughts of resentment and anger, and suddenly, her love was weighed down with where they were, and why they were here.

Harry saw the light in her eyes fade. But he knew it had been there, it was unmistakable. When he first saw Ruth, he had expected to see coldness, but he'd seen warmth. Where he'd thought he would see the detachment of a woman who had given herself to another man, Harry had seen an openness and a vulnerability that had taken his breath away. And in that instant, he knew that she hadn't given herself fully to this new man in her life. There was still a part of Ruth that belonged to him.

_She still loves me. Married, a mother, gone from me for a year, but she still loves me_. For a moment, he breathed into the fact that Ruth hadn't forgotten. Harry feared that there was so much more to come on this day, but he knew that the thread held steady between them, strong and firm. For that moment of connection, Harry's exhaustion, this room, Mani, all of it had disappeared. It had been as if Harry and Ruth were the last two people on earth.

Ruth had felt confused earlier, but now the only thought she had in her head was how surprising it was to be seeing Harry again. For a year, she'd dreamt of looking into Harry's eyes, and now that she was, she could see that his pain at their separation matched hers. Malcolm's words came back to her: _He still ... he cares for you ... Harry loves you, Ruth. Very much. He's never stopped._ She believed it completely now.

And before she could push the thought away, Ruth realised that what she wanted most was to lean into him. With just a push of her feet, she could scoot the chair closer, and she knew, from the look in his eyes, that if she leant forward, he would too. It didn't even have to be a kiss. She simply longed for the feel of his cheek against hers.

She wanted to touch him, but fast on the heels of that wish, came guilt. For a year, George Constantinou had tried to win her heart, and in one split second, she was feeling more for the man across from her than she had ever felt for the man she'd shared a bed with just last night. And the man across from her, although he clearly still loved her, was the man who had left her in silence for the past year. With that thought, the pain flooded in.

It was the pain and the guilt that finally allowed Ruth to tear her eyes from Harry's. Her mind returned to her, still crowded with warring thoughts, but clearer. Ruth realised that Mani must now have Nico and George, and she feared for their safety. She thought they must be terrified, and Ruth began to worry especially for Nico. She turned and looked up at Mani. "What have you done with my family?"

Harry looked across at Ruth, and he felt the thread stretch and fray. _My family_. The two words re-opened the wound that Mani had started, and cut deeply into the peace he'd felt just moments before. He couldn't make sense of the words he was hearing, after what he'd just seen in her eyes. _My family_. It rang a dissonant chord, and inwardly, he flinched.

Mani looked down at Ruth. This was the moment he'd waited for all day, to see Harry and Ruth in the same room, and he could feel the tension between them as if it were a physical presence. But he had his own agenda, and it didn't involve Ruth's husband and child just yet. For now, he wanted to keep reminding Ruth and Harry of what they were to each other.

Of course Mani knew about the Hotel Anassa, and he'd already told Harry that he knew. Mani thought someone would have to be blind not to have seen what had passed between Harry and Ruth just a moment ago, but there was a delicate dance to be performed here, and Mani did so love this dance.

He looked in mock innocence from one to the other. "_Were_ you two just friends back then?"

Harry couldn't take his eyes off Ruth, whose eyes were now down, looking away from him. She looked the same, but he thought something had been lost. Not innocence, because he'd watched that slowly fade over the last six years. The best way he could describe it was that a light had extinguished. He'd seen it come to life in her eyes when they'd first seen each other, but now it was gone.

It took Harry back to that first night, when she'd come to his house and told him that she wanted to have dinner with him again. He'd thought the same thing then, that he had extinguished the light in her eyes, but that night it had come back. His deepest wish right now, as he looked at her, was to see that brightness again.

There was something so sad about Ruth, as if she'd been beaten down until she was bereft of hope. Harry was exhausted, he desperately needed water, and his heart had been broken several times today. But paradoxically, his hope seemed to be growing. Ruth still loved him, and her love lived beyond the time they'd been apart, beyond his abandonment of her, and even beyond her _family_.

Mani's voice broke into Harry's thoughts, and Harry realised that he was still talking about Baghdad, in an irritating, sanctimonious tone, made all the more ironic by the offensive things he was saying. "There was an obvious connection, and everybody else out there was at it like rabbits. Adrenaline, I suppose. You two, though ..." Mani looked from Harry to Ruth, enjoying his dramatic speech, "You know, it wouldn't surprise me if it was all quite chaste in a frightfully outdated, _Brief Encounter_ kind of way."

Finally, Ruth raised her eyes to Harry, and he read the plea there. _Make him stop, Harry. I can't bear this_.

Harry's eyes never left Ruth's, but he spoke softly to Mani. "I wouldn't speculate about it too much. It's probably a bit beyond your vulgar little mind." He said the words to Mani, but his thoughts were understood by Ruth. _We know what happened on Cyprus and in Baghdad, my love_. _There's no one who can touch that, especially not this vile man. _

Ruth thanked Harry silently, and looked away.

That would be enough for now, Mani thought. _Now I give them time to get reacquainted_. The affected kindness was gone from Mani's voice, and he was deadly serious. "One or both of you knows where the uranium is. I shall be back shortly to find out ..." Mani leant down behind Ruth's chair, but he looked at Harry, and smiled again, " ...Which one of you breaks first."

Mani continued to stare at Harry, but Harry couldn't take his eyes off Ruth. Mani watched for a moment, thinking, _Ah, this will be so simple. Put Ruth in pain, and Harry will crack. He's already cracking, just sitting across from her_. Mani walked slowly to the door, then stood there for a moment. He called out to them. "I'll leave you for a time. I'm sure you have much to catch up on. And don't worry," he said, laughing softly, "No one is listening." Then he slammed the door.

For a time, they were both silent. In truth, their hearts were pounding wildly, and through the fear and fatigue, each felt nervous, almost shy. There was so much to say, and neither knew where to begin.

Not to mention that the walls had ears and eyes, and they didn't want to hand any more ammunition to Mani. Harry started to say_, It's so good to see you_, but that seemed wrong somehow, given where they were and the circumstance they were in. She wouldn't look at him, so he said, "They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Ruth kept her gaze down, for the simple reason that every time she looked into Harry's eyes, she seemed to fall into them. His care for her, and the compassion she heard in his voice, was going straight to her heart and settling there, warmly. It frightened her how quickly her attempt at resolve over the last year had simply vanished into the brown of his eyes. She spoke softly too, her gaze still down. "No. They didn't hurt me."

"That's good," he said, sighing at the inanity of this conversation. He couldn't take his eyes off her mouth, set, downturned, sad. He wanted to ask, _What are you feeling?_ He wanted her to rail at him, to beat at his chest with her fists. He wanted to explain, to justify. _It was only out of love for you, my Ruth_. _Staying away was the hardest thing I've ever done. I was on my way to you, there's still a bag packed at my house, with your necklace, your ring, my diary for you to listen to..._

And then, in Harry's mind, the words were unavoidable, deafening, and he whispered them, so softly that they couldn't be heard by the microphones, nor would Ruth have heard them unless her ear had been against his lips. The words escaped of their own volition, under their own power. "I love you, Ruth."

She wasn't sure she'd actually heard, or if the words had simply appeared in her mind, but Ruth looked up, sharply. She took a breath, as if she were about to speak, but she stopped herself, and released the breath in a sigh. She tilted her head just slightly, and spoke, as softly as he had. "I know."

Harry had many questions he wanted to ask her, but his primary goal had to be to get them out of here. He'd spent so many hours not knowing what was going on back at the Grid, he had to find out what Ros and Lucas knew. The question was, how to do it without giving Mani clues?

In an instant, Ruth saw his eyes change from the softness of her Harry, to the steel of Harry on the Grid. Her heart jumped with the suddenness of it, but it brought her back to an awareness of their predicament. No matter what her heart was feeling, her head reminded her that they were in very deep trouble. She looked back at him, and he saw his stalwart Ruth, his analyst. He smiled his thanks, and through that smile came all the respect that George had so recently denied her.

All Ruth could think was, _Harry knows me. He knows me like no one else does_. She sat up straighter, and waited for his questions. Even through the swirling emotions and the terror, the "born spook" rose up, and a small thrill went through her. She was astonished by it, but it settled in like an old friend, and another piece of her returned.

Harry began to speak to her, but he was speaking in German, one of their shared languages. It was a good choice. Mani might be multi-lingual, but German was unlikely to be one of them. But just in case Mani did understand, Harry spoke in metaphors.

"Warst do schon zuhause?" _Have you been home?_ he said, narrowing his eyes just slightly. He spoke softly, but without hidden meaning, as if he were simply making conversation.

Ruth assumed "home" was the Grid, but she had to be sure. "Ja, die Türen wurden ausgewechselt." _Yes, the front door has been replaced._ She matched his tone, without emotion.

"Ah, yes. There was a break-in, so we had it fixed for you," Harry continued, in German.

Remembering walking on to the Grid, Ruth said, "It was ... different. So much was ... missing."

Harry's eyes softened, and for a moment, they shared the loss of Adam and Zaf. "I'm sorry," he said. "That must have been a shock for you."

Her eyes began to fill, and she looked down. She had to get hold of herself, because she didn't know how long Mani would leave them alone. "I spoke to my neighbours," she said, looking up again. "There's a new man living next door. He speaks with a Russian accent. He seems kind, and was very helpful."

_So she'd spoken with Lucas. Now to the important question_. "And what did you talk about?"

Ruth's mind was racing. How was she to tell Harry that Ros, Lucas and Jo knew about Baghdad, and about Ronnie, McCall, and Amish Mani? Quickly, she thought through what they had talked about in the Baghdad hotel room that would take Harry there. What came to mind brought a light blush to her cheek. The colour midnight blue, and the lingerie she had been wearing that night at the Hotel al-Rasheed. Suddenly, she smiled at Harry, and said, "He asked about my garden, actually. He wanted to know about the _Midnight Blues_. They're climbers, you know? I have three plants in front of the house."

Harry understood, and his eyes showed it. Not only that she had relayed the information about Baghdad and the three main players to Lucas, but also that she remembered the blue game, and that night in particular. _Of course she remembers. We'll never forget_.

Harry smiled back. "That's good. So your neighbour knows where to find them, to plant them in his own garden?"

Ruth's eyes were sad now, and she shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. They may be difficult to find this time of year."

Harry heaved a sigh, and shook his head in a way that was just barely perceptible. He spoke as if he were simply thinking out loud. "That's a shame. Perhaps there's still time." _Time. We need time._ He looked directly into Ruth's eyes, and she could see that he had shifted from asking to telling. "Time, Ruth. And patience. That's what it will take."

Ruth gazed back at him, and nodded. Harry was right. All they could do was make sure that they gave Ros and Lucas enough time to find them. So they would stall. Which meant that no matter what, Ruth was to hold the information about Norfolk.

Both took a deep breath, and they stopped talking for a while. For a time, their eyes remained locked, but finally, it was too much to bear, and Ruth turned her eyes toward the floor. Harry looked away as well, but now his mind was working, as he tried to reconstruct how this day had gone. If Ruth had been to the Grid, she had been under the protection of MI5. She would have been placed in a safe house, and since Mani couldn't have abducted her from Thames House, he must have gotten her from the house.

Harry looked up as it dawned on him. _The safe house system. Shared with MI6. Ronnie is MI6_. That was how she'd been found. Which meant that, for some reason, although Ruth had told them Ronnie was involved, she had still been sent to a safe house in the system. Why that had happened was eluding Harry right now, but there was one thing of which he felt fairly certain.

No one on the Grid had the slightest idea where Harry and Ruth were.

* * *

The listening suite had been set up on another floor of the warehouse. There were three monitors for the three cameras, and there were also three microphones, one in the wall facing Harry, an opposing one facing Ruth, and one in the ceiling far above them.

Mani was watching and listening intently, but Harry and Ruth hadn't spoken to each other yet. His mobile rang, and it was McCall. Mani had been trying to reach him all day, so he picked up. But before he moved away from the monitors and out to the hallway, he told Ojas, his Head of Operations, "Come and get me if anything is said that I should know about. And be certain the recorder is working."

McCall was his usual blustery self. Mani abhorred him, but he was a means to an end. In any case, McCall told him how his men had taken out that traitorous Stephen Hillier as he'd sat in his car and chatted with Ros Myers of MI5. The microphone in Hillier's car had picked up the entire conversation, and McCall's men had shot Hillier just as he was about to reveal the location of the new safe house, in exchange for "assurances." _What a snake_, Mani thought. And coming from Mani, that said quite a lot.

McCall's men had asked if they should also kill Ros Myers, as they'd had a clear shot whilst she was in the car, and also when she walked away, wiping Hillier's blood from her face. But McCall had said no. Killing Hillier was one thing, but killing Ros Myers was gratuitous and dangerous. After all, what had Hillier actually told Miss Myers? That Harry was to blame for everything that was happening because he had moved the uranium. That information was unlikely to further her cause of finding Harry. McCall thought it might have the added benefit of sending Harry's team on a wild goose chase, trying to track the uranium.

Mani needed to find out if Harry had told Ruth the new location. He was waiting for the camera to be set up at the safe house, and for the feed to connect to the laptop. In the meantime, he had hoped that he could listen to some insipid romantic talk between the two lovers. Perhaps they would forget themselves in their passion, and tell him something he could use.

Mani made certain that McCall's men were in place to pick up the uranium as soon as Harry gave them the location. After that, he would kill Pearce and his little girlfriend, and meet McCall. That was their plan, but what McCall didn't know was the rest of Mani's plan. One quick shot to McCall and to each of his men, and Mani would be off and out of the country with the uranium that should have been his in the first place.

Mani sighed. A tremendous amount of work, but it would be worth it. Millions. The millions he had expected to receive long ago, before he'd discovered that Harry had betrayed them. It was all so tiring, the business of betrayal. No one could be trusted anymore.

McCall was still droning on when Ojas came out of the listening suite. Mani put the phone to his chest. "What is it?" Mani asked.

"They're talking," Ojas said. As Mani started to pass by him, headed for the listening suite, Ojas touched his arm. "In German."

Although Mani spoke no German, Ojas knew a smattering of the language. Not enough to write or speak, but enough to understand rudimentary phrases.

Mani turned. "German?" He frowned, exhaling loudly. "What are they saying?"

Seeing Mani's frustration, Ojas stepped back a pace. "I ... I can't understand it all, but they began talking about her house, and now I believe they're talking about plants, and ... a garden."

This was clearly not what Amish Mani wanted to hear. He clicked off his mobile, pushed Ojas roughly aside and walked into the listening suite. Mani watched and listened for a few minutes, his eyes narrowed. _Two bloody spooks_. They were clearly talking in some kind of code, and he didn't have the time to find out what it was. But he had underestimated them. He'd thought that they would be so overcome at seeing each other again, that they wouldn't be able to resist talking of love. Instead, here they were, sharing information.

Mani burst out of the suite and took the stairs two at a time. He opened the door and walked quickly to where Harry and Ruth sat. They'd been silent when he walked in, but he had just missed Harry's final words, _Time, Ruth. And patience. That's what it will take_. But of course, it was in German, so he wouldn't have understood it, in any case.

"English!" he shouted at them. Then he calmed himself, and made an attempt to smile. He was breathing hard from the run up the stairs, and both Harry and Ruth could see the rage in his eyes. "We all want to share in this lovely reunion, you know?" He walked toward the door, and when he reached it, he turned. "English!" he said again, before walking through and slamming the door.

* * *

Harry knew there was nothing more to do but wait.

But he was fighting a growing sense of panic, and he feared this day would end very badly. He'd watched Mani execute Sarkiisian, and Harry had no doubt that Mani would do the same with Ruth or with himself. If Mani pointed a gun at Ruth's head, Harry knew that he would stand and sacrifice himself. He would promise, he would cajole, he would sell his soul before he would watch Ruth be killed. But the one thing he wouldn't do was tell Mani where the uranium was.

Harry was doing everything he could to think positively, but he had to prepare himself for the fact that today might end with his death and Ruth's. He knew Ros and Lucas were formidable, but if they were unable to piece together the path to this warehouse, he and Ruth would die. Actually, Harry believed that Mani would kill them whether Harry told him the location of the uranium or not, and he was still unwilling to add the lives of countless people to his list of mistakes. So he had determined that, no matter what happened, he wouldn't tell Mani what he wanted to know.

There was nothing more to do. And each minute that went by was another that Harry knew Ros and Lucas were using to find them.

Harry looked across at Ruth, and attempted a faint smile. Her reaction was a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, her lovely eyes moist and wide. He wanted so much to begin to understand what was going on in her heart. And if this was their last day together, and perhaps, their last day alive, Harry felt compelled to talk to her, but to do it softly, in English, without further antagonising Mani.

He knew that Ruth was locked in a struggle with herself, a war between the life she'd been living for the last year, and the life she'd had in England and Paris with him. Ever since Mani had told Harry that Ruth had married, he'd been trying to work it through. When Harry looked at it logically, it made perfect sense.

He'd been allowed the luxury of going back to his old life. Ruth had been forced to reinvent herself, to begin again, and to do it without the hope that he still loved her. Harry had already forgiven Ruth for getting married, because he understood. He didn't like it, and it hurt, but he understood. She was extraordinarily bright, beautiful, and full of love, and it would have surprised him more if she'd been alone all this time. His agony, ever since Mani had told him, had been in the process of trying to let go of her, to allow her to have that new life.

But then he'd seen her eyes, and his hope had unexpectedly risen. He'd felt like a man resigned to drowning, but suddenly her hand had reached out and pulled him to the surface. She still loved him, and that had changed everything.

So he had to ask the question, and for the first time, he was grateful for the cameras and the microphones, because Harry knew that Ruth would answer without emotion, and that he would be able to ask without blame. He spoke softly, and it came out not as a question, but as a statement. "You got married out there."

Ruth sighed, looking back at him. This was the moment she had imagined so many times, wondering, if she ever saw him again, how Harry would react to her relationship with George. She'd suspected that she would feel she'd cheated on Harry, and she'd been correct. Harry's words cut Ruth, because they were so incongruous, so wrong. She wanted to answer, _I thought you'd forgotten me. And the answer is no._ _No, I didn't get married. I couldn't. Because I'm already married. To you._

Ruth didn't answer his question about marriage. She fought what was going on in her head, and she spoke with the same calm, clinical voice she'd used in the debrief on the Grid. She said, simply, "George is a doctor. At the local hospital where I worked for a while."

"Worked?" Harry realised that these were the questions he was planning to ask Malcolm, just yesterday, and he never imagined that he would be asking the questions of Ruth. Harry felt his whole being relaxing into the sound of her voice, the lilt that he'd not heard since he'd last seen her. He'd hungered for it, and it didn't matter what they talked about, he wanted to hear her speak. But beyond that, a picture was beginning to emerge of the life she had led for the last year, and he hung on every word.

"Clerical work." Ruth smiled when she said it, knowing what Harry would think. They had talked about Ruth getting a clerical job with Tom and Christine at Trans Atlantic Security. Ruth had been thrilled with the idea, because it meant she would be in Liverpool, in England, and she hadn't cared what type of work she had to do.

But Harry had thought it beneath her, and now, he repeated what he'd said then, "You were made for more than that, Ruth." He said it solemnly, softly, and both of them remembered.

Ruth was a different person now, and she wanted Harry to know that she'd changed in the year they'd been apart. She spoke firmly, with her chin up, and met his eyes without apology. "I loved it. I did my job correctly, and when it was finished I went to the market, or swimming. It was simple. Everything about my life was simple and elegant, for once."

They both remembered those words as well. She'd written them in a letter to Harry. She'd used them to describe her life in Paris, but in the context of the letter, she was describing how much she missed the Grid, and the work. She had said, _Much as I would like to believe it, simple and elegant may not, after all, be my style._

Harry didn't know if she was trying to tell him something, or if she'd forgotten she'd written those words. But now he felt he'd held back long enough, and he had to know how she felt. He spoke slowly, deliberately. "And ... George?"

Ruth knew what he was asking, and she flinched under his stare. Her eyes spoke clearly to him. _Yes, I said I would love you forever. Yes, I said there would never be another man for me. But you left me there. Alone. You broke my heart_. "He's a good and kind man, Harry." Now she looked down at her hands, unable to bear the look in Harry's eyes.

"Do you love him?" It was a simple question, and Harry spoke it quietly, kindly. But there was so much pain contained in it. Harry waited patiently for her answer, unmoving, with so much hurt in his eyes, the brown of them deep and penetrating. Ruth knew that if she looked at him, she would dissolve into tears.

As it was, she felt the sobs begin to rise in her throat, and regret nearly overwhelmed her. If she had only waited, Ruth knew that she could be sitting here without this paralysing fear for two innocent people, and she would be looking Harry in the eyes with a clear conscience.

She couldn't lie to Harry. If she'd been passionately in love with George, she could explain herself. That would be the best excuse for what she'd done. As it was, Ruth couldn't even remember now what had made her accept George's invitation into his house, and his life. Now that she was here with Harry, none of that seemed to make any sense.

"I feel .... Very guilty." It was the most honest response she could give him.

"That wasn't my question," Harry persisted. Now Ruth did look in his eyes, and what she saw there was her Harry, the man she had given her whole heart to. He asked again, "Ruth?"

Ruth suddenly knew she was either going to fall completely to pieces, or she was going to survive this. With the tears still forming in her eyes, she forced herself to remember that Harry had abandoned her. That she had begged him to come to her, begged him to respond, and he'd given her nothing but silence. It was too easy for him to sit here now, with emotion in his eyes, asking her if she loved George. _Where were you when I needed you?_

As she knew it would, her anger gave her strength. "He doesn't deserve to be in danger. And I'm not going to start discussing my feelings about him."

She frowned and looked directly into his eyes now, but her anger gave her temporary immunity from them. "Not with you."

Harry could see what she was feeling, and he knew what she needed to hear. He opened his mouth to say, _I'm sorry, Ruth. I'm so sorry. For everything_. But just then, he heard a noise in the hallway. The door opened and Mani and another man walked through. Harry stopped himself from speaking and looked up. He saw the look in Mani's eyes and knew, _Now it begins_.

Mani's voice held no more playfulness. It was all business. "OK ... Time to get serious now. Where's the uranium?" Mani stood behind Ruth, exuding malice, and Harry felt it immediately. He looked at Ruth and she was suddenly terrified, her eyes pleading for Harry to do something.

Instantly, the rage that Harry had suppressed for a day and a half surged up, and he lost control. "Don't hurt her. You _dare_ to hurt her!" Harry lunged at Mani before the man behind him could take him by the shoulders and pull him roughly back into his chair.

Mani pushed him back, "Calm down, Harry! No need to go all Shakespearean on us." Harry sat back, once he saw that Mani was not intending to touch Ruth, but his heart was hammering in his chest. If his hands had been free, he had no doubt that his fingers would still be around Mani's throat.

Mani had pulled a third chair forward, and the other man was setting up a laptop. The screen was filled with static, but it read, _VIDEO FEED ONLINE IN 3 SECS_, and as it counted down, a picture began to emerge. A back yard, and a man and a boy, kicking a football. Harry looked quickly at Ruth, and saw immediately that this must be George and her son. There was a despair on her face that he couldn't describe, and that he never wanted to see again. It cut straight to his heart.

Harry looked back at the screen, peering closer to see the two figures more clearly. The man was tall, dark, and Greek, and as Mani had said, he was not at all like Harry. Harry thought he knew what was going to happen next, but even in the midst of this horrible moment, Harry found himself feeling jealous.

Forcing that emotion away, and knowing he had to keep his wits about him, Harry turned his focus to the child. Another emotion took the place of jealousy. _Relief_. This couldn't be Ruth's son. The boy must be George's, because he was at least eight, probably older. So Ruth hadn't had a child, she wasn't a mother, and Harry felt still another piece of her return to him.

Mani was speaking to Ruth. "They think they are in their nice new house with a garden and that the men with guns are looking after them." Ruth looked away from the computer screen and up to Mani, who kept talking, gently, almost kindly to her. "Which of course they are, for the time being."

Harry looked at Ruth and read the pain on her face. He remembered her words, _I feel...guilty_, and all at once he understood. She didn't love George. She felt responsible for him, but there wasn't love there. Ruth spoke softly to Mani, without anger, pleading, "Please, don't do anything to them."

Mani sounded almost reasonable as he spoke gently to Ruth. "If you cooperate with me, then I shall have no need to do so."

Ruth turned and looked at Harry, terror in her eyes. She had intended that she would say nothing about Norfolk, but everything was different now. She'd thought she would only have her own life to lose, but Nico and George? They'd been dragged into this because of her.

Harry returned her look, and he understood exactly what she was saying. If only he could speak, he would have said, _No, Ruth. Don't say it. As soon as you say Norfolk, you will cease to be useful to them. There are things even you don't know._

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETY-SIX**

* * *

Ros strode onto the Grid hoping that she'd gotten all of Stephen Hillier's blood off her face and out of her hair. She walked directly up to Malcolm and said, "Ruth and her family are in one of Hillier's safe houses. Tap into their system, find out where it is."

Malcolm was still immersed in the guilt of having put them in danger, and he was glad to have some way to help. "I'm on it."

Ros had learned from Hillier that Harry had betrayed Mani and McCall by moving the uranium, and that now, Harry was the only one who knew where it was. So it was Baghdad reunited. They couldn't find Harry through Hillier, of course, because Hillier had just died right in front of Ros. Mani was probably with Harry. That left only McCall to lead Ros to Harry.

Ros thought it was time to call in Lucas' burgeoning and somewhat congenial relationship with the new CIA liaison officer. "Sarah Caulfield may still have access to McCall. I want a tracker on him. See if he can lead us to Harry."

Lucas frowned, and said, "How do I persuade her to do that?"

Ros had that look that always worried Lucas. She wanted answers, and didn't really care how he got them. "By any means necessary." Then she smiled at Lucas as she walked away. "I'd try charm first."

* * *

Ruth couldn't stop watching the screen. George and Nico were playing, just as they always did. Her mind was drawn back to the morning, only two days ago, when she had stood out on the upstairs balcony and watched them, just like this. Not on a computer screen, but from around the wall, unseen, as they played in the pool with the ball. How had things changed so drastically from that moment, and gone so unbearably wrong?

She held their lives in her hands. Two lives, for just a simple piece of information. In her agony, Ruth began to justify, to bend the facts. What if she had never gone with Harry to Baghdad? What if she and Harry had never heard about the uranium in the first place? What if Harry hadn't been able to convince McCall during that shape-shifting dinner in Baghdad? Wouldn't the uranium now be in other hands anyway?

Indeed, how many terrible things happened every day over which they had no control? Nico laughed, bringing her mind back to the screen, and Ruth smiled sadly. Her boy. Not hers, but loved as if he were. Where would they go from this day forward? She would never see him again, probably. And then the terrible thought entered her mind. _One way or another I won't see him again._

Mani's voice broke through Ruth's thoughts. His tone was sickly sweet, and made her feel vaguely nauseous. "How nice," Mani knelt down beside Ruth, and gazed at the screen with her, as if they were watching the joy of shared family members. "A bit of father-son bonding. See, there's no need for torture." He looked up at Ruth, smiling.

Ruth's eyes filled with tears. "You think this isn't torture?"

Mani's voice went immediately cold. "One of my men will first shoot your husband and then the boy if you do not tell me where the uranium is."

Ruth gasped, and began to sob. She looked desperately at Harry, and then back to Mani. "Please, I'm begging you!"

Mani still knelt close to her. "Tell me where the uranium is."

Now Harry spoke, with conviction. "She doesn't know."

Mani glanced over at Harry, but didn't move. "We'll see."

With more urgency, Harry said, "I'm telling you, you're wasting your time. She doesn't know where it is."

Ignoring Harry, Mani said, softly, "Tell me, Ruth."

Harry had to stop this. He knew where it was leading, and he had to convince Mani. "She only _thinks_ she knows where it is."

Now Mani's voice became low, ominous. "Your husband and the boy are about to die."

Ruth had been looking between Harry and Mani, trying to decide what to do. Now she looked at the computer screen at George and Nico, and all she could think was how much she wanted them to be back in the pool on Cyprus, playing together, safe. She felt the tears welling up again, and she knew that she would do anything, say anything, to get them back there.

Ruth looked at Harry, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Harry, I can't."

Harry didn't look at her, but he focused every ounce of energy he had toward her. _Don't tell, my love. Don't say Norfolk. It's not in Norfolk anymore, and Mani knows that. Don't tell._

A sob escaped from Ruth's throat, and she took a deep breath. "It's in Norfolk. An abandoned nuclear shelter from the Cold War years." She turned to Harry, and whispered, again, "I'm sorry."

Harry closed his eyes in despair. He knew that George or the boy would now die, maybe both. Mani looked over to him and smiled as he stood and walked around Ruth's chair. Harry looked at Ruth, whose head was tilted in apology, her face so filled with pain that Harry felt it enter his own heart.

Mani pulled his mobile from his jacket. "Oh, dear, Harry." Harry kept his eyes on the laptop screen, dreading what was about to happen. He was praying it would be the man instead of the boy. Not for himself, but for Ruth. She didn't love the man, but somewhere, he felt she cared deeply for George's son.

Mani spoke into his phone. "Take the boy inside." Ruth and Harry watched together as Nico kicked the ball to his father. George stopped it with his foot, and was just about to kick it again, when a man walked out to them. George turned in response to something the man said, as did Nico.

Ruth was still crying. She didn't regret what she'd done. She would do it again to save them. And it was to save them, but it was also to save herself. She didn't think she could live with the guilt that would come with being the cause of their deaths. She thought if that happened, she would have to ask Mani to take her too.

Nico went inside, and in the back of her mind, Ruth wondered why they were being separated. Harry watched with mounting dread, because he knew exactly why Nico was being taken inside. Now, it was simply a question of which one of them was to die. Knowing Mani, he thought it would be the one still visible. The sick bastard would take pleasure in watching Ruth's face as he killed her husband.

Ruth turned and looked at Harry, and saw his thoughts written on his face. She looked back at the screen, and then quickly back to Harry. Her eyes wide, she tried to get Harry to look at her, but he wouldn't. She'd stopped crying, but the alarm was starting inside her that something was terribly wrong.

Mani spoke calmly, quietly into his mobile. "Now, kill the man."

And in a flash, Ruth knew. What Harry had said was true. She _didn't_ know where the uranium was. He had moved it and not told her. And because he hadn't told her, George Constantinou was going to die before her eyes.

"No!" Ruth looked up at Mani, her eyes frantic. "No, what are you doing?" Mani was closing his mobile. "I ... I told you what you wanted to know." Now Mani was calmly watching the video feed, as if they were still playing. Not a smile on his face, but anticipation, a veiled eagerness. Ruth stood, and looked Mani in the eye, saying, "Please ...!" Ruth begged him, but he wasn't pulling out his mobile again, he was just standing there, watching.

Ruth looked down at the screen just in time to see the man behind George pull out a gun and aim it at his head. And then he pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the back of George's head with a light puff of smoke, and Ruth watched in disbelief as the man she had held in her arms just last night fell to his knees, then collapsed to the ground, and then ceased to exist.

She screamed at what she was seeing, unable to accept it, "No! Oh, God! Oh, God!"

Mani leant over and pulled the chair closer to Harry, scraping the floor, and yelling to be heard over Ruth's anguish. "This is all _your_ fault, Harry! If you'd played by the rules, none of this would have happened!"

Harry's rage came to the surface, and he shouted back, "If I'd played by the rules, the uranium would already be in the hands of terrorists." Ruth was still screaming, looking between George, face down on the grass, and Harry. He was still talking about terrorists, about his _job_, while George lay dead in front of him. Her hands at her mouth, and her heart breaking, Ruth suddenly thought she didn't know Harry Pearce at all.

Mani lowered his voice, and said to Harry, "OK, let's see how far your duty will go." Harry finally looked at Ruth, but now she wouldn't meet his eyes. He was sorry for George's death, as he would be for anyone's. But as Harry looked at Ruth his thought was, _We will never come back from this. You'll never forgive me. It's over, isn't it, my Ruth?_

Mani knelt down again and spoke softly to Ruth. Her crying was calming to choking sobs. "You were right. You told the truth, for which I commend you. But we've already looked in that place that you said. Now Harry will have to do a whole lot better or the boy will meet the same fate."

Harry thought he had never felt so much like killing someone with his bare hands as he did this very minute. His rage was so enormous, his pain so deep, that he lost control. Ruth's husband was still lying face down on the grass, dead. His first thought was that he didn't want her to have to look at that picture any more.

But then, within the irrationality of his fury, Harry also realised that George and Mani were the reasons that he would never have Ruth again. His rage constellated in the only part of his body that he could use to express it, and he kicked furiously at the laptop on the chair, sending it flying across the room.

Mani glanced up impatiently. He was tired of playing games. He turned with annoyance to Ojas. "Fetch me a new laptop."

Ojas went out of the room, and Mani stood between Harry and Ruth. He forced a smile at both of them, and took a deep breath. His voice took on the quality of ice, sharp and cold. "Well, that was rather exciting, wasn't it? Perhaps you'd like to discuss how you feel about each other now." He added with a sneer. "Use whatever language you'd like." He turned and walked out of the room, leaving them alone.

Harry's chin lay on his chest. He was suddenly so overcome by the exhaustion, hunger and thirst he'd been holding back, he thought he might pass out. Ruth still whimpered, but he could tell by the sound that she had turned in her chair and was facing away from him. When he looked up, he could see that she had her bound hands up to her face, and was leant on the back of the chair.

He managed a breath, and said, "Ruth."

She didn't turn. Her voice was muffled, but firm, and choked with sobs.

She said only, "No, Harry. No more."

* * *

Ros tapped her fingers sharply on her desk. She didn't like waiting -- she liked doing. But for now, all she could do was wait. Lucas was talking with Sarah Caulfield, and if Sarah agreed to put a tracker on McCall, there was still a chance that they could find Harry and Ruth. But time was ticking away, and with every minute that went by, Ros' hope that they were still alive diminished.

"I found it!" Ros heard an uncharacteristic outburst from Malcolm and turned. She walked over and saw him looking intently at his computer screen.

"Found what, Malcolm?" Ros looked at the map, and then looked up at Malcolm.

"I've found Hillier's safe house. It must be where they're holding Ruth's husband and child."

Ros nodded. "Okay, keep a watch on the house." She turned to go back to her desk.

Her calm reaction left Malcolm dumfounded. "We can't just leave them there."

Ros spoke firmly, "We can't go charging in there either, with Ruth and Harry still captive. Keep it under surveillance." She turned again.

This wasn't the answer that Malcolm wanted to hear. "But if I hadn't moved them, maybe they wouldn't have been found." Malcolm's eyes were desperate. "..the boy wanted a garden…"

Ros interrupted him before he could go any further. "Malcolm, stop blaming yourself. Hillier would have found Ruth anyway. Organise a surveillance team. We're really close to Harry now."

Malcolm had spent the last hours in desperate regret, and finally it all spilled over into anger. "I was the one who put them in danger!"

Ros spoke softly, and shook her head. "No, Malcolm, you weren't . Get some rest, we're dealing with this." She turned away, but then had another thought, and looked back at him, speaking more gently. "Remember, whilst the rest of us were sleeping last night, you were awake, discovering the Indian's voice on the tape." The corners of Ros' mouth turned up just perceptibly. "We need you, Malcolm. At your best."

When she walked away, Malcolm stood for a moment. It didn't matter what Ros said, he knew it was his fault, and now, instead of seeing the Grid and all its activity, Malcolm could only see Nico's eyes looking back at him. Malcolm had told George he didn't have much experience with children, and it was true. But the boy had entered Malcolm's heart somehow, and had affected him in a way that was completely new and slightly bewildering. As Malcolm had driven back from playing backgammon, he'd thought of Sarah again.

Before he'd known it, he'd imagined himself with Sarah by the seaside, Liverpool to be exact, and he'd found himself wondering what it might be like to have a child there as well. Not their own, of course, as they were a bit long in the tooth for that and Malcolm doubted that he had the ongoing patience for raising one. But perhaps Tom and Christine might, and ...

He'd laughed at himself, shaking his head, wondering what on earth had gotten into him, and then he'd turned on BBC radio, loudly, seeking to return to the Malcolm he knew himself to be. But the memory had persisted of that time spent playing backgammon, and of the brightness of Nico's eyes.

As Malcolm watched Ros walk away, he remembered something Adam had said to him once. It was when they'd gone in search of the Aurora spy plane, and Malcolm had thought he was going to die from exposure to its radiation. Adam had let Malcolm believe the contamination was real, even after it was determined that he hadn't been exposed. When Malcolm asked Adam why, Adam had replied, "Because this Malcolm was invincible."

Allowing himself a wistful smile for Adam, Malcolm thought, _I still am_.

As he continued to look out at the Grid, Malcolm suddenly understood the tales of mothers who could lift automobiles off a child in danger. Then and there, he made a promise that nothing would happen to Nico Constantinou. If Malcolm had to go there himself, he knew he would stand in front of a bullet to save that boy's life.

"Malcolm?" Ros was looking quizzically at him from across the room. She lowered her head a bit and looked at him under her brows. "I said, get some rest."

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm finally focused his eyes on her, and nodded. "Yes, I will. Definitely. Soon." He turned back to his computer station, and began to sort the surveillance team for Hillier's safe house.

* * *

He'd tried to honour Ruth's request, but Harry couldn't sit still any longer, and finally, he had to go to her. She'd been faced away, with her back to him, ever since Mani had left them alone. She'd been silent for a time, but then the realisation of what had happened had descended on her again, and she began to sob, murmuring "Oh, God, how could..." Her voice faded away, the thought unfinished.

"Ruth?" he said again, plaintively. He moved slowly toward her, as if she were some mortally injured animal that he didn't want to frighten. He spoke softly, "What can I do?"

Harry stood behind her and watched as her shoulders rose and fell raggedly. She seemed not to have heard him, and then, he couldn't stop himself. His hands were still bound together, but he reached them out, almost involuntarily, and he laid them gently on her shoulder.

He was expecting her to push him away, to turn on him full of the anger and hurt he'd seen in her eyes just minutes ago, but she didn't. She seemed to be somewhere else, in a state of shock so profound that she couldn't even remember being angry with him. The chair that held the laptop was still there, and Harry sat down wearily, his hands still lightly on her shoulder.

"Ruth," he said again, softly. She turned and looked at him, and he saw the overwhelming sadness in her eyes. Her tears spilled over, and she said, "They trusted me. They shouldn't have ..." She tilted her head toward her shoulder, and her despair touched him so deeply that he reached his hands up and held them to her cheek. She closed her eyes and took the comfort he offered, pressing her face lightly against his palms, her tears caught by his cupped hands. "They shouldn't have ... " she whispered. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him, as if she were just now seeing him for the first time, "Harry?"

He wanted to lean across the short space between them and touch his lips to hers, but it would be unspeakably inappropriate, so he sat, gazing into her eyes, and said, "I'm so sorry." It was all he could think of, and it came directly from his heart, but it was the wrong thing to say.

Ruth took a shallow breath, and he saw the recognition return to her eyes. She reached up and took his hands and pushed them away as she said, firmly, "No!" She shook her head, and Harry saw the fire blaze up in her cheeks. "You can't make it all go away, Harry. Not this time."

She turned away again, and Harry fell back in the chair. He could feel her tears on his palms, and he held his hands out and looked at them in some disbelief. _Ruth's tears_. She was here and he had touched her again. Harry thought he had never loved anyone more, nor felt more helpless than he did in this moment.

And then, the door opened. Harry sighed roughly and tried to reach down into his reserves for the energy he would need to face what he knew was coming next.

Mani set up the new laptop, and again the video feed counted down. Ruth was terrified that George's body would still be there, face down on the grass. But when the picture appeared, there was only Nico and one of Mani's men, playing football. Not George and Nico, as it had been just an hour ago. _George is dead._ A fresh shock passed through Ruth, but she breathed into it. Although she would have liked to curl into a tiny ball and disappear, Nico needed her.

Ruth watched him for a moment. He was laughing, happy. _So he doesn't know_, she thought. She had to turn her eyes away.

Mani began to pace back and forth beside Harry and Ruth. "Alright. I'm going to count to ten. And Harry," Mani turned and smiled indulgently, "If you haven't told me the new location of the uranium by the time I reach ten, I will call my man, and he will shoot the boy." He looked from Harry to Ruth and back again. "Are we all clear on the rules?"

The hatred in Harry's eyes was palpable, and it hung in the air between them. Ruth was beginning to cry softly again, moving her gaze rapidly from the video screen to the floor, and then to Harry. The vision of George's death was playing in an endless loop in her mind, and especially that small puff of smoke as the bullet entered his head. She looked again at Nico. _Oh, God, no. Not him. Please not him_.

Mani smiled again. "I'll take that as a yes." He began to pace again. He walked toward the window and peered at the torn paper that covered one of the panes. "One ...." Mani paused and looked at Ruth. She was crying freely now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Two..."

Harry looked up at him. His voice was soft, it's hoarse roughness brought on by sheer fatigue and raw emotion. "You'd kill a child?"

Mani answered calmly, as if he were talking of the weather. "Of course I would. Children are the first casualties of every conflict..." Mani's voice rose ominously, and his impatience began to show. "Three..."

"Harry ..." Ruth said his name in the middle of a sob, and she tore her eyes from the screen, to look at him, frantically. Now nothing mattered but Nico. Not her anger, not anything that had happened in the last year. All that mattered was a little boy who couldn't be blamed for any of this. _I am responsible_. Her tears continued to fall, and with her eyes she begged Harry to do something, anything.

"Four ... " Mani looked at the video screen. "He doesn't know his father's dead yet, of course. We'll bury them together, though." The words tore through Ruth. _His father's dead, bury them together_. _This can't be happening_. Nico had lost his father because of her, and now, she was going to watch as Nico suffered the same fate. Ruth couldn't bear it.

She looked across from her again, a cry escaping. "Harry!"

"I can't," Harry said. Now he couldn't take his eyes off the screen. He was seeing Nico, but he was thinking about other children, just like Nico, playing in all parts of the world. Didn't they need to be kept safe? He had to be responsible for them as well. And the bottom line was that once Harry told Mani where to find the uranium, they would all be in danger. Including Nico.

"Please!" A large, hot tear wound its way down Ruth's cheek, and another was fast following it. Harry couldn't look at her.

Mani was still counting, relentlessly. "Five ..." His voice was continuing to take on a more impatient tone.

Harry had to try to explain it to Ruth, although he could see that she was past justifications. "The uranium will be used to build a dirty bomb. It could kill thousands of children."

Ruth watched Nico kick the football again, through the blur of her tears. "But I can only see mine in front of me."

Harry shook his head, and almost whispered to Ruth. "I can't tell him."

Mani brought his voice down to nearly a whisper as well, "Listen to her, Harry. Listen to the voice of compassion."

Harry watched Nico as he played. The boy had no idea that his father had been shot, and that he was only a count of five from the same fate. Narrowing his eyes at Mani, Harry looked up and said, "You know _nothing_ about compassion."

Mani had little interest in receiving a lecture from Harry Pearce. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile. "Six...." He began to press in some numbers.

Ruth gasped. First George, and now Nico. She looked at Mani, her breath coming in short bursts, "Oh, God."

Mani was counting quickly now, "Seven ... eight... nine ..."

Her voice rising, Ruth watched Nico, wondering if this was the last she would see of him playing, running, laughing. "Please, don't kill him!"

She turned desperately to Harry, searching his eyes. _You said you loved me. I saw it_. "If you have any feelings at all ... " _Do it for me, Harry! Please!_ "If you have _any_ feelings for me ..." Harry wouldn't look at her. He kept his eyes on Nico, seeing hundreds of children, thousands of them, playing in that yard.

"... Ten ... " Mani's voice had a finality to it. In horror, Ruth recognised the same tone he had used to give the order to kill George.

"Harry!" Ruth's voice was a shrill cry, and it went straight to Harry's heart, but he was waiting until the very last moment, still buying minutes.

Mani took a breath as he held the mobile to his ear, but he didn't give the order yet. "All right ..."

_Now it was time_. "Stop!" Harry yelled.

Mani clicked off his phone, and smiled, standing over Harry. "Good." Ruth gave a relieved sob, and finally took a breath. She looked at the screen. _Still alive. My Nico_.

Ruth looked gratefully at Harry, but as he began to speak, her gratitude turned slowly to disbelief.

Harry spoke evenly, without emotion. "Listen to me, Mani. I won't tell you. And if I won't tell you now, killing the child is totally pointless. What would you have then? A dead child and no uranium."

Harry couldn't look at Ruth, his beloved conscience, because he knew what he would see there. He was certain that the furrows had begun in her forehead, but this time not in displeasure over the use of an inaccurate word, or of his coldness when referring to one of her colleagues. It wouldn't even be the look that expressed her deep disappointment at learning of the Contingent Events Committee.

No, this look would be one of such profound distress, of such utter disillusionment, that it would convince him there was no way back from it. As they had driven home from Bath, Harry had told her this would happen someday. But neither of them could have imagined it would happen like this.

Ruth spoke softly, incredulously, "You heartless bastard."

Mani was pacing again. Unfortunately, he believed Harry, and this new understanding would require an adjustment to the plan. Perhaps he had misread the amount of love Harry Pearce felt for this woman. Perhaps it had merely been _Brief Encounter_ after all. "You're calling my bluff?"

Harry kept his eyes on the video screen, and on the thousands of children he imagined there. He still couldn't look at Ruth, but he'd found a reservoir of energy now, and was using every last bit of it. He spoke firmly, with no hint of the exhaustion that had been there just moments before. "No. I'm making a cold statement of fact. If you kill the child, it will be for gratification, but not for any purpose, because I won't tell you, if you do ... " finally, Harry looked up a Mani, " ... or if you don't."

Harry saw the weakening of resolve in Mani's eyes, and he knew he'd won this battle. "Come on, Mani, you're an intelligence officer, you know when a man is bluffing."

Ruth turned away now, unable to watch any longer. "Oh, God," she said again, softly. Harry was doing his job. _His bloody job!_ The man was made of stone. Not flesh and blood or feelings, but pure granite. _What a fool I've been, to think that he was capable of love_. She began to cry again, this time for the life of the sweet, innocent boy who was to be sacrificed on the altar of bloody Harry Pearce's convictions.

Mani was still thinking, his eyes gazing off to the distant wall of the cavernous room. Finally, he took a breath, and said, "All right." He looked back at Harry. "We'll see how strongly your will holds out, when the child's in the room with us." Then Mani smiled as Ruth let go into wracking sobs.

Still looking at Harry, Mani said softly, "A child in pain is a very distressing sight."

Harry looked back at the computer screen. _Time._ He had bought them time. He still wore the face he was showing Mani, but inside, Harry's heart was breaking. _You heartless bastard_. The words had cut him in the deepest way possible, and at the same time, Harry knew that this was the only way he could live with himself.

But he felt the fear begin to creep into his chest. He was afraid he'd lost his Ruth forever.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN**

* * *

"You promised the CIA both Mani and the uranium?" Ros looked up at Lucas in amazement.

Lucas smiled back at her as she shook her head. "Huge propaganda coup," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Sarah Caulfield finds a corrupt ex-contractor from Iraq with stolen uranium. How good does she look?"

Ros agreed in principle, but she saw one little problem. "Harry will never agree."

Lucas shrugged slightly. "If she doesn't help us, he won't have a say in the matter."

"But if we save him, he'll countermand the deal. You know that," Jo said.

Lucas turned to Jo and smiled ruefully. "Yeah, it's the flaw in my plan, but luckily, we'll only cross that bridge once Harry's safe."

Ros had to admit that Lucas was using perfect logic. And what he was doing certainly took some nerve. She looked at him with respect. "Double-crossing the new CIA liaison officer on practically her first day. I like your style, Lucas."

Lucas smiled at her and started to turn back to his desk when an alert came from Ros' computer, announcing an incoming tracking signal. Ros looked up at Lucas quickly, "Well, she obviously likes you. She's got a tracker on McCall."

Lucas turned and leant on Ros' desk, peering at her computer screen. _Good girl, Sarah_. He hadn't been sure he'd convinced her, but he must have said something right. "Okay, let's keep an eye on him." He looked back at Jo. "Can you coordinate the teams following him?"

Jo nodded her assent to Lucas, as Malcolm came up behind her. Agitated, Malcolm said, "We've got surveillance up on the house but we can only hear the boy. It's like he's there on his own."

"Keep monitoring it," Lucas said to Malcolm, still watching the tracker signal.

Malcolm sighed, nonplussed. He simply couldn't understand why no one else felt his urgency about Nico's safety. Beyond the fact that Malcolm felt personally responsible for having moved Ruth's family, didn't MI5 have a duty to protect civilians who got caught up in operations? Once again, impatiently, Malcolm tried to get their attention. "But he's alone. What have they done to Ruth's husband?"

Lucas still wouldn't turn. "I don't know, Malcolm, but we can't go in just yet. We have to get to McCall first. He's the only link we have left to Harry and Ruth now."

For a moment, Malcolm stood frowning, watching them as they worked. _No one cares_.

The last time Malcolm had seen Nico, he was with his father. But now, Malcolm had to assume that George had been taken to where Ruth was, and Nico had been left with one of Mani's men. The boy was in a strange country and without family. Malcolm slowly moved his hand up to his chest in an instinctive reaction to what he was feeling. This was new for him, and he didn't completely understand it, but he felt somehow responsible for Nico.

And now, Malcolm was beginning to feel angry. He seldom felt anger, but it seemed to be coming up more often of late. There was an unfairness to this business that was beginning to rankle, a sort of "picking and choosing" mentality of one life over another. In this case, it appeared wrong to Malcolm. _Why does it have to be either/or?_ he thought_. Why can't it be both? Why can't we save Harry and Ruth AND Nico and George?_

Malcolm started back to his desk to sit down. It was second nature to him to be the good, dutiful spook and to follow orders. But he stopped and looked back at Ros, Lucas and Jo, all immersed in watching McCall's tracker as it made its way across the city. Malcolm stood in the middle of the room, undecided, as his eyes were drawn back to the screen showing the location of Hillier's safe house. The surveillance had told him there was only one man with Nico.

_This is my fault_, he thought, suddenly feeling resolved, _I will fix it._ Malcolm looked around him. No one was paying attention. He stared back at the safe house on the computer screen, memorising its location. Then he quietly pulled his overcoat from the rack, put it on, and walked toward the doors without anyone noticing.

Before he stepped out into the hall, Malcolm gazed across the Grid one last time, knowing that it might, indeed, be his last time. His heart was pounding so loudly that he was surprised no one was turning around to see what the sound was.

Malcolm Wynn-Jones was in his fiftieth year of life, and he was doing something he hadn't known was in his job description until this very minute. He was going to offer himself as a sacrifice. To give whatever years of life still remained to him in exchange for the future of a little boy he hardly knew. But in this moment, Malcolm thought he understood Harry better than he had in all the years they'd worked together. He knew now what it felt like to have the power to save a life, and although he was terrified beyond speech, it was, incongruously, a rather invincible feeling.

Turning through the doors, Malcolm again remembered his day with Adam, when he'd thought he was dying. He'd felt then that his life could be measured in hours rather than years, and he'd wanted to make those hours count for something. He felt the same way now. Malcolm knew that the bravery he was feeling was only possible because of that day, and he sent up another silent thank you to Adam Carter. Adam would be a part of saving Nico Constantinou, and that thought gave Malcolm comfort – the idea that even after death it was possible to affect life.

Before he could change his mind, Malcolm quickly went downstairs and found a cab. After a brief trip, he asked to be let out of the car early, so that he could have a short walk to the safe house. He wanted to feel the cool air on his face, and to smell the early summer flowering of the clematis and wisteria. He was focused on what he must do, but at the same time, Malcolm thought he had never loved life more than in this moment, as he readied himself to lose it.

Too quickly, he stood in front of the house, and he could only think, _Is this where I will die?_ Malcolm had always thought himself something of a coward, but he was feeling curiously strong. For a moment he felt the sun warm on his shoulders and the back of his neck, and he filled his lungs with the crisp, fresh air. Malcolm felt grateful, and with the gratitude, a new thought materialised.

In the way that had been a part of humans going to their deaths since the beginning of time, Malcolm found himself bargaining. _If I live through this, then I will ..._ A wistful smile crossed Malcolm's face as he finished the sentence.

_If I live through this, then I will find Sarah. I'll beg her to take me back, and we'll move to the sea, to Liverpool. I'll withdraw my ill-gotten gains from the Highland Life fiasco and I'll purchase a house on the water, with a spacious balcony and two chairs, side by side. We'll make our way, one by one, through every book we've ever wished to read, and in between, we'll talk. I'll marry her, if she'll have me. And if her dream is different from mine, I'll follow her, wherever she wants to go. _

_If I live through this. _Malcolm took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes at the house in front of him. _It's in God's hands now_.

He walked purposefully up the stairs and stood before the door, gazing at the blues, greens and golds of the stained glass window. Another deep breath, and Malcolm reached out and pressed the button for the doorbell.

When the door opened, Malcolm was face-to-face with the man who was holding Nico. He had to admit he was surprised and somewhat proud that his voice didn't shake. He felt strangely calm now. He'd made his bargain, and all that was left was for the drama to play itself out.

"My name's Malcolm Wynn-Jones. I'm an MI5 officer with a great deal of knowledge of how things work at Thames House. I'm unarmed. My superiors don't know I'm doing this. I've come to offer myself for the child you're holding here."

Malcolm stood on the front step of the safe house with no clear idea of what was going to happen next. He wasn't sure if the man understood English, and for a moment, he tried frantically to remember the smattering of Hindi he had learned. Fortunately, he was saved the trouble, as the man stepped aside, and in a heavily-accented voice, said "Come in."

The man closed the door behind Malcolm, and pulled a handgun from his belt. Raising his hands slightly, Malcolm felt for a moment that he might be preparing to shoot him, but instead, he motioned for Malcolm to turn around and lean against the wall. The man patted him down, obviously looking for a weapon or a wire. The combination of his fear, and the unusual feeling of having this stranger moving his hands over him caused Malcolm to jump slightly, and the man pushed him back against the wall, not roughly, but firmly.

The man said, "Okay," and stepped back. Malcolm turned and straightened his clothes, looking down the hall. His first concern was to be certain that Nico was safe and well. "May I see the boy?" he asked.

The man stood for a moment, frowning, and Malcolm could see that he was trying to decide if it was a good idea. It was apparent to Malcolm that Nico's fate, and his own, were being held in the hands of this man, so he determined to break through what seemed to be an impenetrable facade.

Malcolm reached out his hand and held it there, hanging in the air between them. If this was to be the person who would pull the trigger to kill them, Malcolm wanted him to know, face-to-face, whose life it was that he was taking. He had already introduced himself, but he wanted to make it more personal.

"I'm Malcolm." The man looked slightly confused by the contact that Malcolm was offering, but finally, after allowing his eyes to dart from side to side, he took Malcolm's hand and shook it, quickly. Malcolm raised his eyebrows in the universal question, _And you are?_

The man realised that Malcolm was waiting to hear his name. "Tarun," was all he said, but he gave an abbreviated, self-conscious nod.

Malcolm smiled just a bit, feeling that this was going very well so far. He nodded and said, "Ah, yes, Sanskrit." He thought for a moment, and translated, "Youthful one. Boy." He left the words suspended there, and finally, embarrassed, Tarun inclined his head toward a room down the hall, letting Malcolm know he wanted him to walk before him.

Malcolm nodded, and said, "Yes, of course. Well ... good to make your acquaintance, Tarun." He held the eye contact for just a moment longer, and then he walked tentatively down the hall. He had achieved his aim. They had acknowledged each other. Malcolm could only hope that Tarun would find it harder to kill someone whose existence he had acknowledged.

Tarun motioned for him to go through a door, and Malcolm sighed, relieved. Nico was sitting at a table, unharmed. He looked up at Malcolm in recognition and gave him just the faintest of smiles. There was a chair across from Nico at the table, and after getting assurance in the form of a nod from Tarun, Malcolm walked to the chair and sat.

He looked at Nico and felt a nearly overpowering sense of gratitude that the boy was unhurt. But beyond that, Malcolm had absolutely no idea what to do next.

* * *

Mani's rage was threatening to overwhelm him when Tarun finally picked up. "Where the hell have you been?" he shouted into his mobile. "You have one job, and one job only, and that's to babysit. Now how hard can that be?" The ridicule in Mani's voice cut through Tarun, as it always did, filling him with a sort of mindless fear, and rendering him speechless.

Tarun had the look of a formidable man, and his scowl could immediately strike fear in an adversary. He was physically very strong and muscular, and he was one of the best shots on Mani's team, but he had a confidence problem. He'd never been able to understand why Mani rode him harder than any of the other men, but he was certain it had to do with his own stupidity, because Mani took every opportunity to tell him so. Tarun had tried to be smarter, but could never seem to please Mani.

The last few hours had actually been very pleasant ones for Tarun. With Mani far away and the young boy as his only company, Tarun had felt himself relax for the first time in as long as he could remember. The boy was scared, although he was trying to be brave, and he missed his father. Tarun could understand that, because when he was Nico's age, he, himself, knew what being afraid was, although he also made a good show of being brave.

The only part of this day that was bothering Tarun was the fact that Mani had given the order to kill Nico's father. In his time with Mani, he'd watched more people die than he wanted to think about, but this felt more personal somehow, because he'd looked into the boy's eyes afterward and had seen an innocence, an openness, that had shaken him. Tarun was certain that Nico didn't know yet, but for a moment, he had felt uncharacteristically guilty for having deprived the boy of his father.

Mani was still speaking to him on the mobile, but his voice was calmer now. "I need you to bring the boy to the warehouse..."

Tarun stuttered slightly, and interrupted Mani, although he wasn't quite certain how to relay this news. "T-there's someone here. He s-says he's an officer with MI5. He's unarmed, and wearing no wires. He wants to exchange himself for the boy."

This information so surprised Mani that he was silent for a moment, thinking. "Alone?" he asked. "You're sure there aren't others outside? Watching?"

Tarun was gaining in self-assurance, as Mani seemed to be interested in what he had to tell him. "He says his superiors don't know he's here. He's not a field agent. He says he simply cares for the boy, and doesn't want him hurt. He seems ... very nervous. Frightened. I think he..."

Mani sighed heavily, and then spoke impatiently, with derision. "Try not to think too much, Tarun." He paused for a moment. "Keep him there. But keep a close eye on him, do you hear me? Don't do anything stupid."

The mobile clicked off in Tarun's ear, and he looked over at Malcolm, who was staring at him. Tarun was embarrassed, and covered it by saying quickly into the dead phone, in Hindi, "Yes, of course. It's under control." For a moment, the two men looked at each other, and Malcolm had a surge of hope. He suddenly saw a kindred spirit of sorts. A frightened man, somewhat out of his depth, like Malcolm. And between them, only a child.

Malcolm smiled vaguely at Tarun, and let hope spread throughout his chest. It was fuelled by Sarah, and a balcony, and a view of the sea.

* * *

"An MI5 officer has turned up at the house where the child is being kept." Mani stood in the listening suite as he talked with Libby McCall on his mobile.

"They're closing in." McCall was hoping that it would have taken a little longer for MI5 to find them, but since that wasn't the case, he would have to work with it. He looked at his watch and saw how late it was. Obviously Mani's soft-touch psychological tactics hadn't worked. It was time to take off the gloves.

McCall crossed the bridge on the way to his car. "Okay, we'll take one last shot at the woman. I'm coming over. We're going to have to really work them this time."

Mani couldn't entirely read McCall's mood, but he heard something that rang all his warning bells. He could just imagine McCall cutting his losses by riding in on the white horse to save Harry Pearce and his girlfriend, and then saying the whole idea was Mani's. Of course, the reason Mani even thought of it, was that it would have been what he would have tried, if their positions were reversed.

Mani's tone was threatening, "Don't even think of double-crossing me to save your own skin here."

McCall laughed and said lightly, "If it _were_ to save my own skin, I'd do it, of course. But it's not necessary."

"What about the child and the MI5 officer?" Mani asked.

McCall gave the obvious answer. "We're running out of time, and they can't help us now."

Mani could hear the noise on the bridge in the background as McCall spoke the words he'd expected.

"Kill them both."

* * *

Tarun stood blocking the door to the room, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his frown deepening. He hadn't meant to take Malcolm's hand when he had introduced himself, but he'd been so...decent, and had looked at Tarun as if he existed. Most of the men he encountered in his line of work followed Mani's lead and ridiculed him, but this man had met his eyes. In fact, he'd given him a sort of respect that Tarun hadn't seen in a very long time.

Tarun thought if the others could have seen him take Malcolm's hand, they would have laughed. And he was afraid that, again, he was being stupid. But he wondered at this man who was so prepared to give his life for the boy. He thought it must have taken great courage to come here.

Malcolm hadn't removed his coat, so he sat with it still on, facing Nico at the small dining table. Tarun listened as Malcolm spoke softly to the boy. "Are you alright, Nico? They've treated you well?"

Nico nodded, looking down at the table top. "I'm fine." He'd found a toy dinosaur somewhere, that he held in his hands on the table. He wasn't playing with it, just holding it.

"Tyrannosaurus Rex," Malcolm said. He sat up straighter, and raised his eyebrows, speaking grandly, "Tyrant Lizard King, Cretaceous period. Did you know they had only two fingers? And very short arms in relation to their bodies ... " Malcolm's voice trailed off, as he saw Nico begin to narrow his eyes slightly.

Nico looked at Malcolm and simply said, "I want my dad."

Malcolm looked around for a moment, hoping to see some games, but there were none. He tried to remember what had calmed him down when he was afraid as a boy. And suddenly, he remembered a time when his parents had gone to London and left him at the vicarage with an aunt. She'd been cold with him and somewhat gruff, and he'd spent the week-end hiding in his room with his books.

One book in particular, _A Dog So Small_, had given him comfort that week-end, and he'd read it as he'd waited for his parents to come home. Malcolm remembered it, nearly word for word, to this day.

He looked across the table at Nico. "Do you want me to tell you a story?"

Nico sounded so sad that it pulled at Malcolm's heart. "I just want my dad."

"He's gone to see your ste ..." Malcolm started to say _stepmother_, but then he stopped, and realised he didn't know how close Ruth's relationship was with Nico. He'd certainly seen the love in her eyes when she talked of the boy, but he wasn't sure how Nico felt. So he asked, "What do you call her, actually?"

"Ruth," Nico answered.

"He's gone to see Ruth." Malcolm paused. He'd been so focused on getting here and making sure that Nico was safe, that he hadn't given George a lot of thought, except to wonder where he was. For the first time, Malcolm began to fear that something very bad had happened to George. The man he'd seen at the duplex would not have left his son willingly. It began to dawn on Malcolm that he was looking at a boy who would possibly live the rest of his life without a father at all. Malcolm 's week-end alone at the vicarage faded and paled by comparison.

Nico was still gazing at him, and Malcolm realised that the boy was looking for answers. Suddenly Malcolm was struck with the realisation that comes to all parents sooner or later. That children believe adults know what the answers are, and that adults are often more in the dark than the children. All he could think to do was to offer comfort where he had found it as a boy.

"Now listen, OK? Er ... here's a story I like very much. It's about a little boy ... who wants a dog for his birthday." Nico leant back in his chair, listening, as Malcolm continued, "But he doesn't get a dog, he gets a picture of a dog instead."

Nico frowned at this, and asked, "Why?"

Malcolm could still remember how he felt as he'd read the words of Ben, the boy in the story. It was Ben's birthday, and he'd been promised a dog. But instead, he'd gotten a picture of one, in wool. _Did you expect a real dog?_ Ben had been asked. _Yes!_ Malcolm, the young boy, had thought. _A real dog was promised._ The story had resonated deeply with him. Malcolm had read the book on his four-poster bed in perceived abandonment by parents he'd thought would never do such a thing. _Yes, I expected a real dog_.

But now, Malcolm was nearly fifty years old, and he understood the adults in the story. He knew dogs required care, and that living in the city made that care even more difficult. He heard himself answer Nico's question in the way that adults do, in words that ask children to simply accept unhappy events as a part of life.

"Because adults often make a mess of these things. We don't always get what we want," Malcolm said softly.

Malcolm was sorry he had to brush Nico's very reasonable question under the rug. It was a question Malcolm himself had when he was Nico's age, but he wasn't certain how to answer it adequately. _Adults often make a mess of these things._ Malcolm nearly shook his head in wonder at the bloody understatement of that sentence. But he sighed, and kept on with the story, "So this little boy ..."

Nico interrupted, tilting his head, wanting to understand. "How old is he?"

"He's about your age." Malcolm paused, realising that not only was Ben the same age as Nico, but that Malcolm had been the very same age when he'd first read the book. There were now three boys in the room, Nico, Malcolm and Ben, and they were all dealing with disappointment.

Malcolm had to look away for a moment, as he felt his heart well up in sympathy for the boy in front of him. There was such a storm of emotions flooding Malcolm that he wondered if he'd be able to withstand it. The control of years was beginning to fall away, and although he was suddenly overwhelmed with regret for all the things he hadn't yet done, Malcolm knew with complete certainty that he would lay his life down for this boy.

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm willed himself to finish the story. "Anyway, he shuts his eyes and he imagines things." Malcolm couldn't look at Nico's face any longer, so he closed his eyes tightly, as he had when he'd imagined his parents coming through the front door after their week-end. "He imagines a dog so very, very small, that nobody else can see it."

Malcolm opened his eyes again, and looked at Nico, who was staring, mesmerised by the story. "Shut your eyes, Nico." The boy squeezed his eyes closed, listening.

Malcolm kept his eyes open now, watching the concentration on Nico's face. "Imagine a dog. It's your dog and nobody else's."

Malcolm could feel Tarun listening as well, waiting to hear the end of the story. He glanced quickly at him, and Tarun's forehead creased with an understanding of what Malcolm was doing. Should the worst come to pass, Malcolm wanted Nico to have the ability to transport himself to another place before Tarun pulled the trigger. Tarun knew that Malcolm would do everything in his power to stop it, but he wanted to give Nico an escape. Tarun saw it clearly, and he found himself drawn into the story. He felt himself admiring what this slightly awkward, but kind and generous MI5 officer was attempting to do.

Malcolm looked back at Nico, whose eyes were still shut tight. He spoke gently, as if he were telling Nico a story to put him to sleep. "And while that dog's there ... everything else is OK."

For a moment, there was silence in the room, and then Tarun's mobile rang. It was Mani. Malcolm didn't need to hear what was said on the other end of the line. All he had to do was to look in Tarun's face and he knew it had been said.

"Kill them."

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT**

* * *

Ros and Lucas raced to join the Alpha intercept team following McCall as he travelled through the city streets. McCall's black Cadillac Escalade came into view, and Lucas spoke on comms to Jo back at the Grid. "OK, I've got him in sight. Jo, he's slowing down. He must be close."

Jo studied the tracking signal on the map in front of her. "There's a disused warehouse behind the flats on your left. He's pulling into the flats."

In the passenger seat next to Lucas, Ros said to Jo, "We're on him."

As Lucas blocked McCall's exit from one side, the intercept team drove their car across the only other way out. McCall got out of the car and looked around him, angrily. He didn't know how they knew where he was, but considering the questions she'd been asking lately, he had a feeling it had to do with Sarah Caulfield. _Never trust a damned Democrat_.

McCall turned and Ros Myers was standing directly in front of him. With narrowed eyes, he began to regret his earlier decision to spare her life.

Her voice was flinty, and cold. "Where are they?"

* * *

Malcolm could see that Nico was utterly engaged in the story. Tarun had left the room after he'd gotten the phone call from Mani, and instinctively, Malcolm knew that time was short, so he was speaking quickly now.

Malcolm wasn't certain why it was so important to him to finish relating the story to Nico, but he hurried to reach the end. He especially wanted to get to the place where Ben realised that his imagination had been very useful for a time, but that dreams could come true in the real world as well. Whatever horrific thing was about to happen here, Malcolm wanted Nico to take that idea - that dreams could come true - with him.

As he continued to tell the story, what was worrying Malcolm most of all was what Nico was about to see. He was afraid that the boy's eyes would be fixed on Malcolm's as he died – and Malcolm wanted very much to be brave as it happened. If a child is going to take a memory with them through life, he thought it should at least contain dignity and courage.

"So, after he's been hit by a car, they give the boy a real dog. But he doesn't want it. He tries to push it away."

Nico frowned, not understanding. "Why?" he asked.

Malcolm gave the boy a lopsided smile. He'd asked the same question, all those years ago, as he'd read the book. And word for word, Malcolm remembered. _"Then, suddenly, when Ben could hardly see, he saw clearly. He saw clearly that you couldn't have impossible things, however much you wanted them. He saw that if you didn't have the possible things, then you had nothing."_

Malcolm smiled because now he knew the answer he hadn't understood before. "Well, because, you see, he's grown to love the dog that lives in his head too much. He has to learn to love real things again."

Nico's mind was working. He was trying to make sense of what Malcolm was saying when a movement to his right caught his eye and he turned. Tarun had come back into the room, and simultaneously, Nico and Malcolm saw the handgun at his side. Malcolm stood immediately, and walked to Tarun. He moved into the doorway and whispered, hoping that Nico couldn't hear.

Malcolm hardly knew what he was saying before he spoke it. He only knew that he couldn't bear what he thought was going to happen. "If you are a human being, if you have an ounce of humanity or compassion in you, then kill me but do not harm the boy."

To Malcolm's amazement, Tarun didn't move. Not only that, but he seemed to be listening. Tarun stood still whilst his eyes moved back and forth from the floor to some spot in the distance of the room.

Gaining courage, Malcolm moved closer. His voice felt strong, although his knees were a bit weak. He realised that his best hope was for Tarun to say, _Alright, I won't kill the boy, I'll kill you instead_, and the absurdity of that hope was just beginning to sink in. But right now, Malcolm wanted nothing more than to take Nico's place if it had to be done. His tone begged Tarun to do as he asked.

"Just walk away from this. _Please_."

* * *

Through the broken pane of an upstairs window, Mani looked on the scene below, and exhaled loudly. _McCall has led MI5 here, the idiot._ And now McCall was surrounded, his hands were up, and Ros Myers and another officer were talking to him. Mani saw McCall look up and point to the window where Mani stood.

Still looking out the window, Mani spoke with his back turned to Harry. His voice held none of the superior, taunting tone he'd been using for much of their time together in the warehouse. Now it was resigned, defeated, and Mani knew he'd lost.

"McCall's been detained by your officers. They'll be downstairs cutting a deal, and I'll be the fall guy."

Harry's heart began hammering, because this was possibly the most dangerous moment he and Ruth had faced today. This was the moment that Mani would take whatever revenge he could, knowing that he had nothing to lose. Harry watched him at the window, and then he looked at Ruth. His beloved Ruth, whose eyes looked back at him, empty, with no light, no animation. She was beyond helping him now, seemingly almost beyond caring what happened to her.

The team was probably downstairs, and Harry had to give them time to find this room before Mani took action. Harry tested the straps on his wrists for the thousandth time, and found them still tightly bound. But his legs were free, and if Mani made a move toward Ruth, Harry would stand and put himself between her and whatever weapon Mani pulled.

But first, he had to try to reason with Mani, or at the very least, buy some time for Lucas and Ros. Harry listened carefully, and thought he could even hear, in the distance, the sound of footsteps in the stairwell.

"Stop this now." Harry spoke softly, hoping that Mani would continue to stand by the window. Mani seemed transfixed with what he was seeing below, as if his mind was far away. Harry spoke almost as he would to a child. "They'll be here any minute now. I can fix this for you. You don't need to be the fall guy, Mani. It doesn't need to be that way. We can do a deal, too."

Now Harry was certain he heard not only footsteps, but doors opening and closing, echoing through the cavernous empty space of the stairwell.

And the sounds were getting closer.

* * *

Tarun looked at Malcolm, searching his eyes. He frowned at what he saw there, because it was out of the realm of his experience. Tarun had killed many times, and he'd seen his share of men pleading for their lives. He'd seen fear and desperate negotiation, and although both elements were present in the MI5 officer's eyes, there was something else there that was new to him. He couldn't quite define it, but it brought up feelings that confused him.

He'd been given a direct order to kill both of them. He was to take their bodies downstairs and leave them in the basement, next to the boy's father, and then to proceed to the meeting place. Tarun had only killed one child in all his years with Mani, and it had been an accident. The boy was a little older than Nico, and he'd tried to be a hero and protect his mother. Remembering now, Tarun squinted his eyes slightly, trying to banish the picture it brought back. The look in the boy's eyes had been terrible. Tarun had managed to forget most of the faces of those he'd killed, but that boy's eyes seemed to always be on him.

Tarun turned and searched Nico's eyes, wondering what their look would be. Still in the doorway next to him, Malcolm spoke again, quietly, deeply anxious. "He's just a boy. What has he done?" Then, quickly, Malcolm said, "Tarun, do you have children?"

Turning sharply, Tarun meant to send a warning glance to Malcolm, to let him know he was crossing a line. But for some reason, he felt himself wanting to answer the question. Tarun sighed and shrugged slightly, and then shook his head, slowly. He wanted to say, _This is not a life for children_, but he stayed silent.

And then, in his head, Tarun again heard Mani's accusing voice, saying "Don't do anything stupid." Tarun forced himself to regain control. _What am I doing? I have a job to do._ After this he could choose to leave this work if he wanted to, but for now, he would follow his orders.

Tarun tightened his grip on the gun, and moved quickly past Malcolm. He sat down across from the boy and pointed the gun at him. Tarun suddenly saw himself through Nico's eyes, and the expression on Nico's face told him he was a monster.

From his left, Tarun heard Malcolm's voice. "Close your eyes, Nico." Tarun looked back at the boy, who shut his eyes tightly. Again, Malcolm spoke from the doorway. "Think of your dog, tell me what it's like." Tarun looked again to Malcolm, and for the first time the thought entered his mind, _I don't think I can do this. How do I live with myself if I do_?

Nico said, "It's a brown dog with a white bit on the end of its tail." Tarun glanced back at Nico, and listened to the innocence with which he spoke. _So young, that face_, Tarun thought, _So much of life still ahead. And in one moment, I will take all that away. One moment for the child, but a lifetime of remembering for me._

Tarun felt the gun in his hand, and he realised it was pointed at Nico's heart. At the heart that right now was creating an imaginary dog. A unique mind and heart that would be forever erased with just the slight pressure of his finger on the trigger. Tarun released the breath that he only now realised he was holding.

Tarun shook his head, almost imperceptibly. _No. Not on this day. Mani can find someone else to do this. Today, I am doing something stupid_.

Tarun turned the gun and clicked the safety on again. He laid it on the table, and reached his hand up to touch Nico's hair. He ruffled it and felt the softness there, and he stood and looked down at the boy. His eyes were still closed, still imagining._ So young, and still alive. Today I don't take life. Today I give it. And if that's a stupid thing to do, then so be it._

As he passed by Malcolm on his way out the door, Tarun gave one quick nod of his head to a man he thought very courageous. Then he went to the front door, leaving his mobile on the table in the hall. He walked out into the crisp air and used his own imagination to envision a new life for himself.

* * *

Mani didn't turn. He still stood, looking out the window. His voice was low, measured. "I'm a dead man walking. So I might as well finish what I was going to do at the end of this, anyway."

Harry's head turned sharply toward Mani. He felt the adrenaline surge through his body as he readied himself to leap from the chair. One of Mani's men was behind him, and he knew it would take a great deal of strength to break that man's grasp once Harry's shoulders were pushed down, as they would certainly be, the moment he stood.

Harry looked at Ruth, and she looked back at him, but now there was something else in her eyes. There was life there now, and the same look he had seen when she had first been brought in. Harry tilted his head slightly, and he saw it. Through everything that had happened - through her anger, her despair, her fury with him, there was still love.

It seemed that Ruth knew, as Harry did, that this might be the last moment they set eyes on each other, and he felt from her that she wanted it to be a true moment. In the suspension of time, Ruth's eyes blinked almost in slow motion, but they never left Harry's. He watched as Mani came up behind her, his right hand at his side, holding something.

A glint of steel caught Harry's eye, as the blade came into sight. He saw it out of the corner of his eye, because he couldn't pull his gaze from Ruth. Her thoughts, as always, were communicated, as if she said them_. I know I'm going to die. And after what I've done to George and to Nico, I deserve to die_.

_No, not you, Ruth_. Now was the time, and Harry rose up. His intention was to block Mani's way as the knife swung around to Ruth's throat. Harry knew the blade would tear at his midsection, and he prepared himself for the pain. But after nearly two days of no food and water, after emotional stress that had drained what little reserves he had left, Harry simply didn't have the strength to withstand the power of the man behind him. The man clamped his hands firmly on Harry's shoulders, and it was as if concrete pillars had suddenly pushed Harry back into the chair.

Mani was moving closer to Ruth, and Harry watched helplessly, pinned to the chair, as the steel blade came fully into view. On an intake of breath, Harry thought, _What has it all been for, these years of protecting this country, of saving lives, if I can't save this one? This one life that makes mine worth living._ He nearly closed his eyes, but Ruth's eyes were still on his, and he couldn't leave her to face this alone.

_Dear God, don't make me watch this and then allow me to live_. Harry thought that he would welcome the feel of the knife that would come after he watched her die. Ruth gasped loudly as her hands went up to her face, as though she could fend off the slash of the knife moving toward her throat. Harry was still struggling to stand, but he knew it was over. In his exhaustion and horror, he could almost see the blood.

Then the sound reached his ears, delayed, echoing, and Harry realised he had heard two shots coming from the doorway. The arm that was around his neck was suddenly released, and the man fell back onto the floor behind him. And then, the knife stopped its movement toward Ruth's throat and began to spiral down, pulled by Mani, who was collapsing to the floor.

Harry looked first to Ruth, and he saw no blood, only the horror on her face, as she looked at Mani, now lying dead from a single shot to the skull. Harry looked at the doorway and saw Lucas still aiming the gun that had killed Amish Mani and had saved Ruth's life. Harry thought that for as long as he lived, he would never feel more grateful than he did in that very moment.

Ruth was rocking back and forth slightly, catching her breath. She looked back at Lucas and then again to Mani, and began to cry. She turned and looked at Harry, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes stricken. He understood her thoughts completely.

This was the end of the danger, of the threat of death, of Mani's torture. But it was only the beginning of all that was to come. Of recriminations, guilt, blame, a boy who no longer had a father, and a man and a woman who loved each other beyond all else, but could see no path back to their love.

Ruth looked at Harry, her eyes overflowing with tears, and said in a cry, "Harry?"

He looked at her, and although he didn't speak, in his head he heard a cry as well. _My Ruth_.

* * *

Malcolm stood in the doorway where he had watched Tarun as he'd walked down the hall and out the front door of the safe house. Malcolm was aware that he hadn't breathed properly in some time, and his lungs suddenly filled from pure need. He felt his head spin a bit, and he leant back against the wall and closed his eyes.

After a few more breaths, Malcolm opened his eyes and walked decisively toward Nico, putting out his hand. "Come, Nico, we need to leave this place." He gave a glance to the gun on the table, and although he wanted nothing more than to leave it there, he realised he might need it, so he reached over gingerly, picked it up by the handle and put it into his coat pocket.

"But how will my dad find me?" Nico asked.

The boy wasn't moving fast enough for Malcolm, so he put his hand behind Nico's back and pushed a bit. "We'll find him. But we need to get out of this house now." Malcolm walked him quickly to the door, and then, after looking both ways, into the hall. He opened the front door just wide enough to look outside, and taking Nico's hand, they walked into the sunshine.

It wasn't until it was clear they weren't being followed, and they were very far away from the safe house, that Malcolm felt he could breathe normally. He made his way to the first telephone box he could find. When Jo picked up the phone, Malcolm said the words he had known for his entire time at MI5, but had never used. "Bravo Tango Whiskey," and then, he went blank on the rest of his call sign. His mind had finally ceased to function entirely.

Jo paused, and then said, softly, "Malcolm?"

Malcolm exhaled. "Oh, God, yes. Please, I need a taxi."

"Where are you?" Jo asked.

Malcolm told her, and then, with infinite pride in his voice, he said, "And I have the boy."

* * *

Lucas picked up the knife that had fallen next to Mani's body and used it to cut the straps on Ruth's hands first, and then Harry's. Ros had come into the room right after Lucas, and she called out a question to him about the coordination of the team that had secured the listening suite below. Lucas walked to the door to talk with her, and suddenly Harry and Ruth were virtually alone.

Ruth was still crying, and Harry could see that her hands were shaking badly as she held them up to her mouth. She looked around her, first at Mani's body, which was on the floor next to her, and then to Harry. Her eyes held his for a moment, and he saw that all the anger was gone. It was the same look he had seen as she'd called his name just moments ago. Then, he'd been bound, unable to move, but now they were both free, and it was impossible for him to stay in his chair.

Harry wanted so much to touch her, to hold her, but he was afraid to get too close for fear of bringing up her anger again. His aim was to move her away from Mani, to take her as far away as he could from the man who had killed her husband. Harry stood shakily and started to reach out and take her arm. He meant only to walk her to the window, to liberate her from the chair that had held her through the last terrible hours.

But before either of them could prevent it, Ruth was standing just inches from him, her eyes looking up at his. And before Harry could stop himself, he had wrapped his arms around her as if holding onto life itself. She was crying again, sobbing, and Harry suspected that he was as well, although no sound emerged. Again, she said, "Harry..." but now she said it over and over again into his chest.

No matter what had happened, no matter how angry she had been, Ruth knew that this was where her only comfort lay. In Harry's arms. She hadn't meant to move toward him, but every bit of energy she had to resist was gone, and Harry was all she wanted. Her arms went round his neck and she buried her face there, her tears mixing with the faint traces of Sarkiisian's blood that still clung to his skin.

For a year, Ruth had dreamt of being in his arms again, and in her entirely vulnerable state, the welcome familiarity of his body was almost more than she could bear. She melted into him and felt safe for the first time since she'd seen the black car drive up to the mountain house. If she really thought about it, it was the first time she'd felt truly safe since she'd kissed him goodbye in Dover so long ago. She felt the warmth of his skin through the cotton of his shirt, and heard his breath catch with the emotion he, too, was feeling.

Harry's hand moved up to stroke her hair, and he took a handful of it gently, burying his face in it. Even now, here, after this horrible ordeal, the lavender infused him with memory. If this was all there was, this moment together, he thought it might be enough. Suffering from exhaustion, hunger, thirst, and sick at heart from all that had transpired on this day, Harry only wished to have Ruth in his arms, just like this, saying his name.

Ruth's crying calmed finally, and Harry continued to stroke her hair, gently, memorising her. But then, he felt her stiffen slightly, and he knew that the moment was over. Harry knew that she had remembered George, and the silence of the last year, and her anger. With a pain like death, he steeled himself to let her go again.

Ros stood a bit apart from them, not entirely sure of what to do. She felt she was intruding on the most private of moments, but she had news that she felt Ruth would want. She waited for a moment longer, and she was saved from having to make a decision, because she saw Ruth pull away and step back, her eyes toward the floor.

Ruth wiped her eyes with her sleeve and took a deep breath. She looked once more at Harry, and he could see the marked difference in her. A coldness had crept in, mingled with the openness he had just seen. This was a Ruth who was saying simultaneously, inharmoniously, _I love you_, and _You heartless bastard_. He had to look away, and as he did, his fatigue overwhelmed him, and he sat heavily back into the chair.

Ruth swayed a bit, and Ros moved toward her to be sure she wasn't hurt. She took her arm, and asked, "You okay?"

Ruth looked at her, and asked, evenly, "Nico? Is he alright?"

Ros spoke gently, "Malcolm is with him. They're being picked up right now. They're both fine."

Ruth's eyes filled with tears again, and she took Ros' hand, "Oh, thank God..." Then she looked at Ros with despair, "Oh, God, his father, how will I tell him?"

"We've got another house for you. Jo asked to be there, if that's alright?" Ruth nodded, and Ros started to walk her to the door, "Come on, we'll take you to him."

While Ruth and Ros talked, Lucas turned to Harry. Lucas started to ask if he was alright, but Harry waved him off, rubbing his wrists, "I'm not hurt." Lucas stepped back and Harry said wearily, "But I need water."

Lucas walked to a place just outside the door and came back with a plastic bottle of water, which he opened and handed to Harry. After finishing it, Harry wiped his mouth and looked up at Lucas, who said, "There's an entire case of it just outside the door."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he looked at Mani's lifeless body, still on the floor. _Well, I reckon I outlasted you, you bloody sadistic bastard._

Motioning for Lucas to come closer, Harry said softly, "Ruth's husband was killed at a house with a yard. Mani had it on a video feed."

"Probably Hillier's safe house."

"You need to retrieve his body, if it's still there." Harry was almost at the end of his strength. "For Ruth."

Lucas put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "We'll find him, Harry. Don't worry."

Harry tried to stand, but faltered. Lucas took his arm and helped him up, remaining there to steady him. Harry looked at Lucas and said, "Thank you."

Lucas nodded, but Harry said it again, this time deeper, more heartfelt. "Thank you, Lucas. For everything. You saved her life. And mine."

Ros and Ruth were at the door, but before she walked through it, Ruth turned and looked once more at Harry. The memory of holding him was still fresh in her mind, in fact, all it took was this look to feel his arms around her again.

But both knew that there was a chasm between them, and too much had happened. They had watched George Constantinou die, and in that shared memory lay the obstacle that Ruth couldn't overcome. Right now, she couldn't see her way there. Not with all the hurt, the abandonment, the grief, and the anger.

Not today.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER NINETY-NINE**

* * *

Ruth leant her head against the cold car window and watched the rain. The sun was just making its descent, and it seemed fitting that everything was grey, chilled, and wet. She still felt the tears coming. They would rise and fill her eyes and then trace silently down her cheeks, until she brought her hand up again to wipe them away.

It wasn't lost on her that she had sat in just this way, not too long ago, with George driving the truck through the mountains of Cyprus. She had watched the rain then, too, as she'd cried about Harry. Ruth was now overwhelmed with the feeling that this would never be over, that she would spend her life leant against cold, wet windows with her tears mirroring the rain, crying over Harry Pearce. It filled her with a weariness that was beyond description.

She was glad that it was Ros who was driving her to the safe house, because Ros afforded her the quiet she craved. There were two people Ruth had to tell of George's death. One was Nico, and the other was Christina. How she would get through those conversations, in fact, how she would even begin them, was a mystery to Ruth. There was nothing she wanted more right now than to find a bottle of whatever gave Harry such welcome oblivion, crawl with it into a soft, warm bed, and pull the covers over her head.

It had only been this morning that she'd stood on the porch preparing the fish salad for their day at the beach. The thought brought a fresh wave of tears, and Ruth hardly acknowledged them. Finally, she simply put her sleeve up to her face, and allowed the moisture to collect there. _This morning_. Nico playing in the pool, and friendly, playful banter with George about the wine. A sunny day, full of promise.

_This is all your fault, Harry._ Mani's words wouldn't stop echoing in her ears. Ruth thought she would never be able to remember George's death without hearing those words following closely behind. It might as well have been Ruth saying them, rather than Amish Mani. It was what she had thought then, and it was what she was thinking now.

On some level, Ruth knew she was being terribly unfair. Harry hadn't pulled the trigger. Harry hadn't even given the order to do it. That was Mani. But none of this would have happened if it weren't for Harry. He was the common denominator in the whole bloody mess, so she blamed him. Along with herself, of course. Always herself. She would forever blame her need to have someone love her, no matter the cost. She had used George, pure and simple, and now he was dead. Perhaps, after all, _she_ had pulled the trigger.

And what was worse, she still loved Harry with every shattered bit of the heart that beat in her aching chest. _Well, I'll have to live with that_, she thought, as another tear fell and spread into the cotton of her sleeve. _But I can't be with him. Not anymore_.

Loving Harry had somehow transformed in the last few hours into a further betrayal of George, a multiplying of her mistakes. She had not only brought George and Nico here to England where this tragedy had been played out, but she was still deeply in love with the man who was the cause of it. Ruth thought the only penance she could pay was to deny herself the pleasure of enjoying that love.

Those few moments in Harry's arms had confirmed one thing beyond a doubt. She could have stayed there forever, if her thoughts hadn't intruded. If the picture of George falling to his knees and then face down on the grass hadn't suddenly come to her mind - if she hadn't heard Nico's voice saying, "I want to go home" - if she hadn't seen Christina's face before her, stricken, questioning, accusing. Ruth would still be there, warm and safe in Harry's arms. It was the only place she truly wanted to be.

But it had felt so wrong for her to be with Harry, when her selfishness had changed the lives of others forever. So she'd pulled herself away from the only comfort she thought she would ever find, from her always-beloved Harry, and she'd stood alone, as she felt she must do from this day forward.

Looking out at rain-drenched London, Ruth wondered, if Harry's only sin had been the silence of the last year, the abandonment, could she have lived with that? Ruth closed her eyes and tried to imagine it, and her answer was _Yes_. If she put George and Nico and Christina aside, she might have forgiven him for leaving her to a new life on Cyprus. Now that she was here, back in his world, now that she'd read his eyes, she was beginning to understand why he might have done it.

In fact, what had happened today may have been exactly why Harry had chosen silence, because he'd always felt he put her in danger just by loving her. What she'd seen whilst they sat across from each other in that horrible room was how much Harry still cared for her. Had things been different, she might have listened to his reasons for letting her go, and she might have accepted that those reasons grew from love.

But now, it was too late. And on that thought, Ruth dissolved entirely into tears. She moved her head from the car window and leant forward, convulsing, into her hands. Ros turned to look at her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Ruth?" she said, gently, "Shall I pull over? Do you need some time?"

"No," Ruth said, her voice barely recognisable, "There's nothing you can do."

Ros sighed at the absolute despair she saw as Ruth choked the words out, her eyes filling yet again. "There's nothing anyone can do."

* * *

Harry turned and thanked Lucas for the ride, and nearly sleepwalked up the steps to his front door. He needed a shower, a change of clothes, a quick meal, a check on Scarlet and the cats, and then he would go back to the Grid for the day's final meeting in a couple of hours. He was utterly exhausted, but the team had so many questions, and after the energy they'd put forth and the great success of their efforts, they deserved to know what it had all been for.

Secretly, Harry hoped there would be a chance that he could see Ruth again tonight, but he understood that it was only a sliver of hope. He'd seen the look in her eyes as she'd walked away. Harry knew that if there was to be any road back to Ruth, it would be a very long one. He'd thought of nothing else in the car on the way home, and had promised himself that when he did see her, he would first ask what _she_ wanted. And then he would do everything in his power to make that happen.

If she wanted to leave London, as he suspected she might, even if she wanted to disappear again, he would arrange it. He owed her that much, at least. He thought she might want to go back with Nico to live with her husband's family. _Her husband_. Ruth was now a widow. Harry thought again about the opportunities he'd had to marry her whilst she lived in Paris. And now, for the life of him, he couldn't recall what was so bloody important that he hadn't done it. It seemed that no matter how hard Harry tried to avoid it, life was shaping up to be a long series of regrets.

But he hoped with every fibre of his being that she would want to stay in London. That she would come back to work. When he'd spoken in German to Ruth, he'd recognised the same spark in her eyes that he'd seen so often. It was the look he'd seen after her confrontation of Angela Wells. Actually, it was the same look she'd worn during her first week on the Grid. He'd asked her then, incredulously, if she'd hacked into the French Security Services, and she'd looked back at him and said, "They do it to us, and we do it to them." It was the game she loved, the challenge, the pure logic of solutions that were evident to no one but Ruth.

Before the tragedy of this day became unbearable for her, whilst there was only the potential of terror, he'd seen that spark there. And he'd known that it was what had been missing in Ruth's life with George. Harry knew her so well, and if that longing for her former life was still there, if she still wanted it, he would find a way to clear her and get her back on the Grid. Or if that was too close to him, then with Six, or GCHQ, or wherever she wanted to be.

Harry would talk to Nicholas Blake and call in his laundry list of recent favours and grievances. The Opera with Blake's sister, for a start. And to finish, the alacrity with which the Home Secretary had assumed Harry was a traitor. Clearing Ruth was a simple matter of the destruction of a few bits of paper and the typing of a few characters on a computer. It was owed to Harry, and he would do whatever he needed to get it.

Harry took the key from his front door and walked into the hall. Scarlet, Fidget and Phoebe ran immediately to him, and the sudden assault on his nose reminded him that he'd shut off all their ways to the outside when he'd last been here two days ago. Harry sighed, remembering why. On the sofa was his carry-all, packed and ready to go. He'd been expecting to leave the Grid early, come home, and fly to Ruth. To sweep her off her feet and act the hero. He was almost tired enough to laugh at his own hubris, but not quite. Actually, the whole idea of it was near to breaking his heart.

Harry stooped down painfully to touch each one of the animals in turn. "Yes, I know, it was very bad of me to leave you girls alone like that...again..." he said softly. Fidget and Phoebe arched their backs and rubbed frantically back and forth against his legs, whilst Scarlet simply licked his hand and whimpered a bit. "I know ... and you must be hungry, and thirsty." Harry understood, as he felt the same. _Four lost souls in need_, he thought, standing to go to the kitchen.

The food and water bowls were empty, so he filled them, and watched for a moment as all three ate ravenously. He walked to the door leading out to the garden, and opened it wide to air out the room, before setting about cleaning up the inevitable mess. They seemed to have found a designated area near the pantry, so the task was soon finished.

Harry had pulled five bottles of water from the case outside the door at the warehouse, and had slowly finished them all on the way home, so his thirst had subsided, but now he was feeling a strange combination of hunger and nausea. He took a piece of bread from the breadbox and some slices of cheese from the refrigerator and, folding them together, began to nibble on them aimlessly. He wandered to the sofa and fell heavily into it so that he could sit whilst he ate.

His carry-all was next to him, and his arm went across it. And then he couldn't help opening it, pulling the zip quickly and reaching for the small heart-shaped box that he knew was just inside. Finishing the last of his makeshift sandwich, Harry ran his fingers across the already-filthy cotton of his shirt, and opened the box gently, reverently. Ruth's necklace and ring were there, as they had been since the day he'd retrieved them from her flat in Paris. As he was packing this bag two days ago, he'd dreamt he would soon be kissing the charms against her neck as he had on that nearly perfect day in Bath.

But now, Harry held the necklace up and studied it as he'd done so many times. The tiny H and R caught the light, reflecting it. Closing his eyes, Harry leant back on the sofa and released a long, ragged sigh. She'd been in his arms for only a few moments at the warehouse, but in that time it was as if every moment they'd ever shared together had been condensed, and played in fast forward through his head. The warmth of those memories seemed to have wrapped Harry and Ruth safely inside, and he could only think, _She's home_.

He was so tired now that he was afraid he would fall asleep on the sofa. He thought he should open his eyes, stand up, and take the carry-all to the bedroom and unpack it. But before he could move, a paralysing, overwhelming feeling of loneliness suddenly infused him. And brought on by his weariness, his despair, and how much he simply missed her, the tears began to slip from his closed eyes.

How long had he and his Ruth been fighting the tide? From the first day, it seemed. But Harry had never doubted that the prize would be worth the struggle. Now she was in London, physically near to him, but in every other way, she was further away from him than ever before.

And now, on top of everything else, George was standing between them, and Harry couldn't even challenge him for Ruth's love. Should he try, he would be literally confronting a ghost, a man Harry was afraid would grow in strength and stature with every passing day. George would be locked in Ruth's memory as the victim of a string of events that Harry put in motion. She must blame him, and indeed, after she'd pulled away from his embrace today, he'd seen it in her eyes.

As Harry held Ruth's necklace and cried, the three words she'd spoken to him were playing in an endless loop in his head. Not _I love you_, which is what he longed to hear her say. Instead, the three words he heard now were _You heartless bastard_.

* * *

As Malcolm saw the pool car drive up, he gave the driver his call sign, and received a nod. He opened the door at the curb and turned to Nico. "Back or front?" Nico took one look at the driver, who was a stranger to him, and he said softly, "Back," and then added, shyly, "With you."

Another new pull at his heart took Malcolm by surprise. He saw Nico for exactly what he was: scared, alone, a smart, intuitive boy with a sinking suspicion that something had gone terribly wrong in his life, something irrevocable. Malcolm suddenly realised that Nico had stopped asking about his father.

They drove directly to a new safe house that had been arranged by Jo, this time not a duplex in a high-rise, and not a family home with a yard. This was different from the other two places Nico had been taken, and Jo had chosen it precisely for that reason. A homey, two-storey building with flats.

Ros and Ruth pulled up to the safe house at virtually the same time as Nico and Malcolm. Nico sat forward, peering into the back seat of Ros' car, and Malcolm saw a moment of fear cross his face as he saw that his father wasn't with them. Malcolm narrowed his eyes, as he realised finally that George must be dead. Malcolm exhaled softly, and laid his hand protectively on Nico's shoulder. The boy looked up at him, and Malcolm opened the car door.

"Come on. Let's go inside," Malcolm said gently, pursing his lips. _It's not my place to tell him_, Malcolm thought, _Not that I'd know the first thing to say._

Nico got out of the car as Ruth did, and he could see by her red-rimmed eyes and her flushed cheeks that she'd been crying, and probably had been for a long time. She put her arms out as he walked toward her, and he allowed her to hold him. He put his arms around her waist, and although he thought he already knew the answer, he asked the question. "Where's my dad?"

From the moment Nico had seen the gun at the safe house, he'd known, really. One minute his dad had been there, playing ball with him, and the next, he had disappeared from the house. Nico had asked Tarun where his father had gone, and had gotten only silence. Then he'd asked Malcolm, and the answer hadn't seemed quite right. When Malcolm had told him to close his eyes and describe his dog, Nico had seen the gun that was pointed at him, and he'd known.

He'd felt it, deep inside him. Nico couldn't put it into words, but wherever his dad had gone, he didn't think he was coming back.

Nico pulled away from Ruth and looked up into her eyes. The tears were rolling down her cheeks now, and Nico felt his own beginning to well up. He frowned, and asked again, and this time his fear was tinged with anger. He didn't think he was going to like what he was about to hear. "Where is he?"

Ruth put her hand on his cheek, gently, and said, "He's ... he's ... Oh, Nico, I'm so sorry." She tilted her head, and said, softly, "He's ... gone." And finally, she had to simply say it. "He ... died."

Ruth and Nico were still standing between the cars. Ruth had imagined them being inside when she gave this news to Nico, that it would be more controlled, more planned, but she hadn't bargained on the straightforward manner he would use to ask her where his father was. Of course it was his first question. It was the only question that mattered to him.

Malcolm stood on the other side of his car, and Ros was leant on the front of hers, turned away, trying to give them some privacy. Nico's arms were still around Ruth's waist, and she pulled him closer as he began to shudder. His voice was muffled, but now the anger was beginning to overtake the fear. "He didn't just die, they shot him, didn't they? The man who was going to shoot me?" He was crying now, and Ruth held him tightly.

"Yes," she said.

"Why?" Now the words lost their anger, and it was a little boy's voice, pleading for explanations, looking for answers where there were none. And then he said the words Ruth had been dreading. "Why did you bring us here?"

And as she heard those words, Ruth knew she'd been right. The steel of Mani's knife would have been far less painful.

* * *

"Gently!" Jo said, as the men lifted George's body from its resting place in the basement of the safe house. The blood had pooled around his head, and for a moment when Jo had first seen him, she'd been reminded of the video of Harry. Except the blood around George's head was his own, and George was dead.

Jo had asked to be with Ruth at the safe house, and at first, Ros had said yes. But Harry made it clear that retrieving George's body was critically important, so Jo was tapped to supervise the detail that was tasked to do it. Lucas was debriefing Libby McCall and managing the team at the warehouse, and Ros and Malcolm were with Ruth and her step-son. The whole team seemed to have come together to offer whatever comfort and support they could. And although Jo knew there wasn't really much to be done to make this easier on Ruth, all she could think to do to help was to ensure that George's body was handled with care and respect.

Jo thought that Ruth had probably already told the boy that George was dead. She tried to imagine how difficult it must have been for Ruth to put aside her own grief about her husband's death and tell a ten-year-old boy that he would never see his father again. As she gave the directions to take the body upstairs, Jo felt a tug at her heart.

She'd been surprised at the intensity of what she'd felt when Ruth had first come on the Grid. It had been as if there were a sort of telepathic language between the two women, both of whom had known the type of fear that Yalta and the Redbacks were capable of inflicting. Jo had been a true victim of it, Ruth a psychological one, but both types of fear were devastating. It had made them both strong, but strong in the way that the heavy furrows of scars can cover the tender skin below.

In those few moments of greeting, and in the spontaneous hug they'd shared, Jo had found she wanted to talk to Ruth about her experience, in a way she hadn't wanted to talk to anyone else. Of course, Ros had been through the same, or worse, but Ros didn't talk about things. Ros processed by steamrolling, silently, with a strength that Jo hadn't been able to find in herself.

But when Jo had looked at Ruth, she'd felt a sudden kinship, a sisterhood of sorts, and it had given her comfort. So in support, she was here, with George. _Ruth's husband._

Jo looked at him, and before she could suppress it, the thought entered her head that, physically at least, he seemed utterly the opposite of Harry. Even after she learned that Ruth had died, Jo had always thought of Ruth and Harry together. That moment she'd seen in the hallway between them, when they were so clearly in love, had never quite left her memory.

Jo had joked about Zaf's book on Harry and Ruth's relationship, but she'd never forgotten that she was the one who had placed the tracker in Ruth's pocket. With that one innocent act, she'd set in motion a whole series of events that she'd believed had led to Ruth's death. And no one on the Grid could ignore the devastation Harry had been unable to hide in those last desperate days before, during, and right after Ruth's funeral.

But then, within a short time, Harry had seemed to find a sense of balance, a way of living with the loss of Ruth, and Jo thought he'd moved on. There were times when he seemed positively euphoric, on the Harry scale, and she'd wondered if he'd found a love to replace Ruth. But now, Jo finally understood.

Ruth had been alive, and Harry had known it. Jo smiled, thinking of Harry and Ruth sneaking around, finding ways to be together through insurmountable odds. But as she watched George's body being zipped into the black plastic body bag, she realised that somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong between Harry and Ruth.

Sometime in the ensuing years, they'd separated, grown apart, and Ruth had met and married George Constantinou. Jo found herself wanting to know the story, not out of any sense of wishing to pry, but because she somehow loved the idea of Harry and Ruth together. They'd always been of like mind, but the thought that they could truly love each other, and had done, even through Ruth's exile, gave Jo a sense of contentment that she couldn't quite pin down.

Jo looked up and into the eyes of the assisting officer, who had asked her a question, and she answered him. "Yes, the Morgue. Processed, and then held for transport, likely out of the country." She touched the black bag at the foot of the trolley. "Don't know about official ID. Tell them we'll sort that soon." Someone would have to identify the body before papers could be signed. It would have to be Ruth, or whatever family might come from Cyprus to take him home. _One step at a time_, Jo thought, sadly.

As they wheeled the trolley out, another officer walked up to Jo, and handed her a small carry-all. "This is all we found. The rest of the house is clean."

"Thanks," Jo said, "I'll just close things up." The officer left, and Jo sat down, wearily. She wanted to determine if this was George's bag or Ruth's, so she unzipped it and looked inside.

On the top was a pair of swim trunks, still slightly damp, that were obviously the boy's. They were wrapped in a towel, also damp. She set them aside. Then there was a small bundle that appeared to be made up of a man's dress shirt wrapped around some very fragrant shaving soap.

Jo took it out and was immediately reminded of Harry. From the times he'd leant over her at her desk or passed her in the hallway, she remembered the faint scent of what was now strongly assailing her senses as she drew the soap closer. And the shirt was English, soft and wrinkled from many washings. Jo would wager quite a lot that it was Harry's.

So Ruth had never forgotten him. Married, living far away, but even in her haste to escape the danger she'd described to them in the debrief, she'd been unwilling to leave this behind.

Jo sighed and stared out of the window into the grey rain. And all she could think was, _What I wouldn't give to have a love like that_.

* * *

Harry looked at himself in the mirror, and a small revelation came to him. He thought he looked vaguely like his own father had, the last time he'd visited. Old, tired, and worn out, with a sadness around the eyes that spoke of bitter disappointments. For a moment, standing still and looking into his own eyes, Harry felt a desire to ask his father if his life had contained the same missed opportunities, the same losses. _How lonely he must have been after Mum died_, Harry thought.

Shaking off the emotion that was dangerously close to the surface, Harry straightened his tie. He'd debated whether this meeting required coat and tie, and had decided he needed to project the image of a man who'd not been broken by recent events, although he had serious doubts about how intact he actually was. He'd chosen the red tie, bold, and bright. It also happened to be a favourite of Ruth's, and that choice was not made unconsciously.

One last brush through his hair, and he walked into the bedroom. He glanced at the heart-shaped box, back in its proper place at Ruth's side of the bed, and he went downstairs. Picking up his coat and keys, he bent down to rub Scarlet behind the ears. She was clearly not pleased that he was on his way out again, and he could practically read her thoughts from her face – _How long this time?_

Harry chuckled wearily, and spoke softly to her, "Not long, girl. No kidnappings or interrogations on the schedule." Then he added, sighing, "Please, God, only a couple of hours. Then I'll come home, and you can all sleep with me upstairs, if you'd like." Scarlet did like that prospect, and showed it with a vigorous wag of her tail. He gave her one last pat on the head, and let himself out of the house.

As he pulled out of the driveway, Harry called Ros. She picked up on the first ring, and he asked her, in as casual a tone as he could muster, how Ruth was doing.

"As well as can be expected," Ros said. "Malcolm is with her now, and we have surveillance in place. Clarke is going to stay the night there, just as a precaution. I'm on my way to meet Sarah Caulfield."

"That's good." Harry thought Amanda Clarke was an excellent choice, a strong female officer with a first-rate level head. And although he'd hoped for more details from Ros about Ruth's state of mind, Harry didn't show it. The name Caulfield, however, was somewhere in his memory, but he was having difficulty accessing it. "Who's Sarah Caulfield?"

Ros smiled. "Our new CIA liaison. Actually, she's in the process of replacing Libby McCall." Pausing, Ros formulated her words carefully. "There were certain ... erm ... promises made. In exchange for the information we needed to find out where you were."

Pausing, Harry allowed himself a small smile as well. "Promises it's likely I'd rather know nothing about?"

"I'd say that's a fair bet. In the same vein as my not needing to know where you actually hid the uranium."

Harry chuckled. "Yes, well, I suppose we should sit down and have a drink one of these days and give up our secrets." Harry's voice suddenly took on a decidedly exhausted tone. "But not tonight."

Ros took a breath, and said, quietly. "You okay, Harry?"

Sighing, Harry said, "Not entirely, but sufficiently. I suppose I like to know how things will turn out, and on this one, I'll admit I'm utterly at a loss."

"Meeting's not for an hour, Harry." Ros let the statement hang between them for a moment, and then said, "Walworth, Trafalgar." And then she simply rang off.

Harry took a deep breath. Ros had just given him the location of Ruth's safe house.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED**

* * *

Ruth couldn't seem to sit still. Although she was completely bereft of energy, she found herself moving from table to chair and then to sofa, and finally, just giving up and pacing. Nico was down the hall, and Amanda Clarke sat outside his door, listening for any sounds. Ruth had sat on his bed stroking his hair until he'd stopped crying and had drifted off to sleep, exhausted.

Nico was still angry with her, but she was the only person he knew in London, aside from Emily, his mother. Once he'd calmed a bit, Ruth had asked him if he wanted to see her. Ruth didn't know where Emily lived, but she'd told him she would find her, if Nico wanted it. He had vehemently said, "No!" and Ruth had let it drop. In truth, his Aunt Christina was the only person Nico really wanted to see, and Ruth hadn't yet gotten up the nerve to call her.

And that was the reason for Ruth's pacing. She was trying to steel herself for the phone call she knew she had to make to Cyprus. When Jo had come by a bit earlier to bring her the carry-all from the safe house, she'd asked Ruth if there was anything she could do. Jo was very good at the "I'm sorry to inform you" calls, as she had a natural softness, a genuine compassion in her manner. For a fleeting moment, Ruth thought of asking her to make this call, but she knew that was only cowardice speaking. It would be wrong for anyone but Ruth to give this news to Christina.

So, with a promise that she would come to see Ruth tomorrow, Jo had gone back to the Grid for a meeting. Ruth had been very glad to see her, but she hadn't been up to conversation, or even basic politeness. Jo had said that it didn't matter, but Ruth had hugged her again, and had shown her to the door.

Going to the kitchen, Ruth filled and switched on the kettle. She braced herself for the wave of sentimentality that never failed to take hold of her at the memory of sweet tea. But this time, when the tea was ready, she stubbornly refused to sweeten it, and simply swirled some milk into the mug.

Her anger was serving nicely at keeping the memory of Harry at bay, so Ruth was holding tightly to it. She felt that once she made the call to Christina, she would simply fall into bed, as she longed for sleep. But no matter how hard she tried, Ruth couldn't seem to pick up the phone. Looking for any distraction, she'd passed by the carry-all, with the thought of opening it, no less than twenty times in her travels round the room. But she knew that it was the item within that she longed for, and she knew even better where it would take her mind and her heart. Finally, Ruth had to put the bag on the floor behind a chair, hidden from sight.

She walked down the hall and told Amanda that the kettle was ready if she wanted a cup of tea. Amanda looked gratefully at her, and whispered, "Would you mind?" Ruth smiled and shook her head, and took her place in the chair outside Nico's room. She sat and sipped her tea, glad for another reason to put off the inevitable for even a few minutes.

Ruth was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't hear the soft knock at the front door, and Amanda's surprised exclamation of, "Oh, Sir, please, come in."

When Ruth looked up, Harry was standing in the entrance to the hall, not five feet away from her.

Ruth's gasp was audible, and before she could prevent it, the mug had slipped from her fingers and had fallen to the carpet, causing a large dark starburst of black tea and milk around her feet. Ruth stood quickly, looking down, and without thinking, said angrily, "Cripes!" between her teeth.

Harry moved toward her, hoping to help, saying, "I'm sorry, oh, Christ, Ruth..." and she put her finger to her lips urgently. "Shhhhhh ... Nico! He's finally asleep." She took firm hold of Harry's arm and led him out into the lounge, and for a moment they stood, both clearly nervous, distressed, and exhausted.

Amanda stepped from the kitchen and felt the tension immediately. Ruth looked at Amanda, a bit lost, and finally said, "I spilled some tea in the hall. I'm so sorry, but could you ... "

"Absolutely. Of course," Amanda nodded as she spoke, grateful for the diversion. She got a towel from the kitchen and disappeared through the doorway toward the hall.

Suddenly Ruth realised that her hand was still on Harry's arm, and she pulled it away sharply, as if she were in danger of being burned by the very touch of him.

And she _was_ in danger. There was a perceptible tingle in her fingers where they had just rested on his coat. Ruth thought she'd felt the heat of his body through three layers of material, although she knew that was impossible in the time she'd had her hand there. Her heart was pounding, and she was infuriated by the fact that she felt the tears threatening again. The last thing she wanted to do was cry, because she knew he would reach out to comfort her, and she couldn't bear it.

Even now, as she looked up at him, his eyes were soft, compassionate, open, and she felt herself falling. George had been dead for less than five hours, and she was falling into Harry's eyes again. The look he wore suddenly took her back to the hallway at Havensworth, but this time she had no stomach for pretending. She sighed heavily and whispered, so they wouldn't be heard, "I can't fight you tonight, Harry. I haven't the strength."

Softly, he said, "I don't want to fight. I only wanted to see if there was anything you needed."

She turned away from him, "Oh, God, please don't be kind, and tender and ... and, _helpful_!" Ruth walked to the wall and put her back to it. It was as far away as she could get from him.

Harry was unable to think of what to say, so he didn't answer. He simply stood, vaguely clenching and unclenching his fists, his mouth slightly open. Finally, he began to turn, saying quietly, almost to himself, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come ..."

Ruth shuddered slightly as he started to walk away, and she already felt the loss of him. She knew how it would feel when he'd gone and she was left here alone, wondering if she should have said or done something different. She knew she would miss him, that she would wish he would come back, so that she could touch him again. In the midst of her anger, the layers of emotions nearly crushed her as she saw his back retreating and the silence lengthened.

And in this moment, she remembered something that she hadn't thought about in a long while. Harry was the man she loved, the man she'd hoped to spend the rest of her life with, but beyond that, he'd been something else to her. He'd been her best friend, the person she'd most wanted to talk with about things that pleased or troubled her. For over six years, she'd found herself seeking his opinion on every subject under the sun. Harry had helped her to interpret her world in a new way. Until his silence had begun a year ago, he'd been the best friend imaginable.

And she thought about the call she had to make, and how she was dreading it. Without anger, Ruth said, "I have to call George's sister, Christina. I have to tell her ... that ... " The tears started to fall, and Ruth had no power to stop them. "I don't know how to do it ..."

Harry turned back. He was aching to go to her, to try to ease her pain, but he knew he should ask her permission first. "Can I come over there?" He reached his hand out slightly to her.

She shook her head and put her hand out as if he were already there, and she was keeping him at arm's length. "No. Please."

He pulled his hand back. "Do you want me to go?"

Ruth felt a massive weariness descend on her. It felt as if the push and pull of this love was going to kill her. Yes, she wanted him to go - nearly as much as she wanted him to stay. She wanted to hit him, to beat her fists against his chest, as desperately as she wanted to be held again, safe in his arms. And although she was exhausted and torn, Ruth knew that there were things that had to be said. If she didn't say them now, and firmly, these questions would never stop, and the opposing forces inside her would go on torturing her.

Ruth needed to think for a moment, so she said, quietly, "Not yet."

Harry stood absolutely still, barely breathing. He saw that Ruth's brow was furrowed, her lovely face so familiar, yet also so distant. He felt somehow that this moment could define who they were to be together from this day forward, and he wanted so desperately not to do or say the wrong thing. The sliver of hope began to grow in tiny increments with every moment that passed. He tried to push it down, fearing disappointment, but it wouldn't be suppressed.

Ruth looked up at him, and her tears had stopped. She spoke now almost through clenched teeth. "I'm _so_ angry with you, Harry."

Harry controlled the emotion he was feeling, and said simply, "I know."

"There are some things I need to say to you." Instead of softening, her voice was taking on a harder edge. Harry felt a heat begin at the back of his neck under the velvet collar of his coat. He wished he could take the coat off, but was literally afraid to move for fear of breaking the moment. And another worry had begun in Harry's mind, a very practical one. The last thirty-six hours had taken their toll on his body, and they were beginning to collect dangerously in his head. Harry was actually feeling as if he might need to sit down.

Ruth had determined what she wanted to say. _This has to end_. "I'm not skilled enough at hiding my feelings from you, but I don't want you to think for a minute that things can go back to the way they were."

Harry's heart fell so quickly that he thought it must have made a sound. He wanted to respond, but he stood, silently, listening. There was a curious greyness around Ruth, a perimeter past which Harry couldn't quite see, except for a bright star or two. In his peripheral vision, he checked behind him, and, indeed, there was a chair there. He put a hand back and rested it there, just in case.

Ruth was drawing strength from her own words. It was as if she was closing doors on the rooms of her heart, shutting them away so that she wouldn't have to cope with them. And with each closing, it seemed as if her life was getting simpler, more manageable. She knew she was hurting Harry, and although it wasn't intentional, in her anger, it wasn't entirely unwelcome either.

"I think it's broken, Harry. Beyond repair, really." She felt another door slam shut. Ruth couldn't look at his face, so she studied her hands. She still had her back to the wall, and she was glad, because she suspected it was holding her upright. "I don't know what I'm going to do, but, yes, I do think you should go."

And that did it. Harry's legs felt as if they were made of building blocks that weren't quite squared, and he toppled roughly into the chair behind him with a sigh. Startled, her eyes met his, and she looked for a moment as if she might come across the room to him, but he put his hand up and shook his head slightly. "It's okay. I'm a bit ... tired."

"Do you want water ... or ... or tea?" Ruth realised she had just told him to go, and now she was offering beverages. She thought she really needed to practice making sense if she was going to do this with any semblance of dignity.

"No, thanks. I just need a minute." Harry looked at her, and searched her beautiful face. He was wondering if the hurt of hearing her say they were broken beyond repair was any greater than all the hurts that had come before. The night he'd thought she might be dead, or worse, at Juliet's hands. The day he'd ignored her letter from Cyprus, the one that pleaded with him to answer. Or the thousands of moments since, when he'd missed her so deeply that he'd thought he might not survive it.

Harry took a deep breath and felt his head clear. He placed his palm on the arm of the chair and pushed himself to a standing position, gaining his bearings.

"Harry ..." she said, looking worried, "Are you alright?"

"People keep asking me that," he said, smiling sadly. "Nothing wrong that a good night's sleep won't cure." Harry wanted it to sound offhand, but the voice inside his head was telling him, _Everything's wrong, and sleep won't cure it, my Ruth._ Suddenly, Harry thought of Phoebe and Fidget, curled on the bed, and he started to ask her, _What about the girls?_ but he stopped himself. As he stared at her, he remembered that she'd just asked him to leave, and he nodded, saying, "I'll go."

And then he couldn't stop himself. Before he turned, his voice soft, Harry said, "I'm glad you're home, Ruth."

She looked back at him, and her eyes showed what the word meant to her. _Home_. Yes, London was her home. She felt it. But more than that, what she'd said to Harry long ago was still true. _He_ was her home, and he always would be.

Ruth couldn't conceal what she was feeling, and as Harry saw it, he thought again that there might be a way back. His eyes blurred slightly, and he turned, not wanting her to see. Without looking at her again, he stepped out into the corridor.

Ruth watched as he closed the door behind him.

* * *

Malcolm arrived first on the Grid, and stepped through the doors. The sparse night crew was there, but they were spread throughout the offices and desks on the floor, so it seemed almost empty. For a moment he stood just inside, and a wave of gratitude washed over him. When he'd gone the opposite way through the doors earlier, he'd been almost entirely convinced it was the last time he would see this place.

Somehow, he'd managed to get Nico out of the safe house, and keep himself alive as well. It was the best of all possible outcomes, made all the more satisfying due to its statistical unlikelihood. The probability that one or the other of them would be killed had been very high, and Malcolm allowed a wry smile to curl his lips upward. _Probabilities are not certainties._ He was understandably pleased that his life, and Nico's, had fallen within the plus-or-minus factor of one-hundred percent.

But Malcolm's heart ached for the boy - for the loss of his father. Malcolm had never been a particularly easy crier, in fact, sentimentality often tended to send him in the other direction, into a sort of protective cynicism, or a black humour that he kept largely to himself. But as he'd watched Nico walk into Ruth's arms, and had heard his sobs, Malcolm had felt his throat constricting. Later, as the driver had brought him back to the Grid, Malcolm had held his hand to his cheek and peered out the window, aware that uncharacteristic tears were just an ounce of self-control away.

It was over now, and although hindsight could be constructive, Malcolm had no wish to wonder what would have happened if things had been different. Nico was safe in his bed, George's body was on its way to the morgue, and Malcolm was here, back to his job at MI5, and back to normal. Malcolm walked to his desk and sat down. As he booted up his computer, he watched the light come to the screen. _Yes, normal, except for one little wrinkle. _

Malcolm didn't make promises lightly. And he never made them unless there was a strong possibility that he would be able to keep them. In the heat of the moment, he'd made a promise. To God, to Sarah, and most of all, to himself. He'd been under duress, but he clearly remembered every part of the promise.

_If I live through this, then I will find Sarah. I'll beg her to take me back, and we'll move to the sea, to Liverpool._

Malcolm entered his password, and then went straight to the "Sarah searches." It was the only personal folder that was on his work computer, and after pulling a memory stick from his briefcase, he copied the folder to it and deleted it from the hard drive.

_I'll purchase a house on the water, with a spacious balcony and two chairs, side by side._

Working from the memory stick now, he clicked through the searches, but instead of his usual glancing to be sure there were no changes, Malcolm began a document outlining the name of the school where she worked and its address, her home address and phone number, her car licence plate, and anything else that he thought would come in handy. Then he removed the memory stick and placed it back into his briefcase.

_We'll make our way, one by one, through every book we've ever wished to read, and in between, we'll talk. _

Malcolm kept his files in immaculate order, so there wasn't much to be done, really. After the removal of Martin Wingate's email and the organisation of a few miscellaneous folders, the computer was ready to accept whomever might take his place. Malcolm leant back in his chair and surveyed his desktop. He thought they would get on just fine without him, and he could leave with a clear conscience. It crossed his mind that Ros and Lucas might get some young buck in, fresh from computer school, who could work twice as fast and three times as well.

_I'll marry her, if she'll have me. And if her dream is different from mine, I'll follow her, wherever she wants to go. _

Malcolm had to admit that the hardest part of leaving was Harry. They'd been side-by-side for so long, Harry might think he couldn't do without him, but Malcolm knew better. For years, Malcolm had watched "indispensible" people either walk away, be forced away, or be carried away from a life with MI5. And he'd watched the waters settle calmly into the hole that was created by their absence, until one would hardly know they'd been there.

Malcolm had no reason to believe it would be any different in his case. Harry would have an instance or two of missing him, and then the waters would settle. There was a bitter sweetness to that fact. As Malcolm looked around him, he thought he might find himself missing this place very much indeed. For all the frustrations, the loss, the fears, and the feelings of being ineffectual, Malcolm knew that this work did make a difference, and that for many years, he'd been surrounded by very good people.

And although Malcolm knew that he and Harry would always have a friendship that stood outside of MI5, he would miss working for, and with, Harry Pearce.

The doors opened, and Malcolm looked up to see Ros coming in, with Lucas not far behind. She was laughing about her meeting with Sarah Caulfield, "... And then she called us bastards. The girl has a bit of a mouth on her, hasn't she?"

Lucas grimaced, but he was smiling, too. "I think we can safely say I didn't start off on the right foot there. I'll have to think of some way to get back in her good graces."

Ros looked back at him. "Charm worked well."

Jo was next, and she stepped up behind Ros. "George Constantinou's body is now safely at the morgue. We'll need someone to provide ID."

Ros sighed. "I'd like to prevent Ruth from having to do it, if possible. Next of kin is an ex-wife in London, or a sister on Cyprus."

Jo nodded, "Yes, his sister, Christina. Ruth was going to call her tonight."

"Well, he's not going anywhere. We'll see how it plays out."

The doors opened again, and Harry walked onto the Grid. Ros thought he looked as exhausted and spent as she'd ever seen him, but she was very glad to be seeing him at all. He took the few steps to her, and said, "Pull the team together. Out here is fine. Five minutes."

* * *

Ruth picked up the phone again, but this time, she dialled. She looked at her watch. _Eight-thirty here, six-thirty there._ The phone rang three times, and a child's voice answered in Greek. Ruth responded, also in Greek, "Galen, it's Ruth. Is your mother there? I need to speak with her."

She could hear her voice shaking, but by now, it almost didn't matter. The discomfort of worrying about the call had surpassed whatever Ruth might think would happen. No matter what Christina said to her, it couldn't be worse than what she'd already told herself, _ad infinitum_.

Galen dropped the receiver loudly on the side table, and Ruth could imagine the scene as clearly as if she were there at the vineyard house. "_Mana!_" he yelled. To a muffled noise in the background, Galen shouted again. "_Eínai Ruth!"_

A few moments passed, and then Ruth heard the receiver being picked up. Christina sounded relieved. "Ruth! We looked for you at the beach, and couldn't find you. Panos went up to the house and there was no one there, but it was wide open!" She laughed, "God, we thought you'd been taken by the gypsies! Are you home?"

Ruth paused, but then said, "No, Christina, I'm in London."

"London? What in hell are you ..." Christina stopped, and Ruth could almost hear the myriad scenarios running through her head. Christina's voice changed, went lower, and became measured, worried. "Are George and Nico with you? Ruth, tell me, are you alright?"

Ruth took a deep breath. "You need to sit down, Christina. I have ... "

"What's happened?" Now Christina sounded frightened. "Ruth, dear, what's going on? Is it Nico? What?"

"Not Nico. George." Ruth's voice faltered, but she managed to continue. "Christina, I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry. It's my fault, all my fault." Finally, it simply had to be said. But now Ruth was crying, and the words were choked, broken, "George has died. He's dead, Christina."

A wail went up on the other end of the phone, and after a time of listening to Christina try to express what she'd heard, Panos came on the line. "We're coming there on the next flight, Ruth. Tell me where you are. And tell me exactly what has happened."

* * *

For a time, Harry sat in his office, staring out of the glass at the muted activity of the Grid beyond. He'd reached his limit of processing new information, and he recognised that he needed one healthy measure of single malt, and close on its heels, approximately a week's worth of sleep. But both would wait until he'd finished talking to the team.

Harry was thinking of the call that Ruth had said she needed to make, to tell her sister-in-law that George was dead. If Ruth had asked Harry to stay, he would still be there, offering whatever comfort or support to her that he could. As it was, all that was in his power to do was to close his eyes and try to imagine it going as well as possible. He'd certainly made enough of those calls to know that Ruth must be in terrible pain right now.

He stood, holding on to his desk for support. Harry knew this long day – these long days – were nearly over. Taking a deep breath, he straightened, and walked out to Ros' desk. They'd been watching him and waiting, and now Malcolm, Lucas and Jo made their way over to him.

Harry put his hands in his pockets, and took a breath. He wasn't certain what he wanted to say, but he started with what he felt was the most important. "I want you all to know how very proud and ... grateful ... I am for the work you did in my absence." He looked at each one of them in turn. "You most certainly saved my life. And Ruth's."

Harry wondered, as he gazed from one to the other, how much they all knew now about his relationship with Ruth. He saw something new in their eyes, something he hoped wasn't pity, but was more like empathy for the situation in which he found himself. Ros already knew, of course, as did Malcolm, and Harry felt no reluctance about the inclusion of Jo and Lucas.

It might have been that he was simply too tired to care, but he thought his wish to be a bit more open had more to do with the shared experience of today. He was grateful, intensely so, that Ruth's life had been saved, and only he and Ruth knew how close Mani's knife was to her throat when Lucas had burst in. They had all worked together as a true team, and Harry felt honoured to be a part of it. He was certain that the sentimentality of what he was feeling now had everything to do with his weakened state, but tonight he felt as if somehow he were standing amongst family. In the best sense of the word.

Ros asked, "How was Ruth when you left her?"

"She's ... distraught, confused, devastated, as I'm sure you and Malcolm saw her to be." Harry looked down and spoke softly, "She's very angry with me." He paused for just a moment, and then continued, "But she's reaching a level of acceptance, I think ... she's strong..." Harry's voice trailed off, and they waited in silence for him to finish his thought. After a moment, he said, "She was preparing herself to call her husband's sister, and of course, she's just told the boy that his father is dead."

They were all aware that Harry was close to collapse, but they could see how important it was for him to talk about this. Jo asked the question she'd wanted to ask Ruth. "Is she going home?"

Harry was standing very still, and he kept his eyes firmly on Jo's, but in truth, he was back with Ruth, less than an hour ago, as he'd told her he was glad she was here. As he answered Jo, Harry felt the warmth of Ruth's reaction to that one simple word. Leaving no room for discussion, Harry said, "She is home."

Lucas was remembering his first disoriented days back on the Grid, and wondered how Ruth would cope. "What will she do now?" he asked Harry.

"I don't know," Harry answered truthfully. He wondered what Ruth would want to say if she were standing here with them, and he tried somehow to speak for her. "Ruth is only alive now because of the work you did here. I think when the grief is less raw ... she will remember that."

He couldn't think of anything else to say, and as his emotions were moving precariously close to the surface, Harry turned toward his office. No one needed to be told that the meeting was over.

After Harry had gone into his office, Lucas continued telling Ros about his debrief with Libby McCall, and she filled in the gaps for him of her meeting with Sarah. Jo began completing her paperwork for the Morgue.

Malcolm stood for a time, unnoticed by the others, with his mind far away. He thought it was time. It was really long past time for him to go. He looked around him at the young people who had such passion for what they were doing, and he was grateful to them, but his connection to the work seemed to fade even as he stood and watched.

He looked to where Tom once sat, then Danny, Zoe, and Ruth. To Zaf's desk, and Adam's, and finally, standing before him was Colin, his friend. His best friend, he had called him, and that he was. All gone, and if not entirely forgotten, at least they had been relegated to an honoured place in the past. He would be gone soon as well, and all he really hoped was to be thought of kindly.

Malcolm turned and followed Harry down the hall and into his office. Harry turned, slightly surprised, but was glad to see him. Malcolm repeated what Harry had just said. "Ruth's angry with you." It was a statement and a question at the same time.

Harry nodded, remembering. _I'm so angry with you, Harry_. Harry gave Malcolm the same answer he'd given her. "I know."

Malcolm wanted Harry to know that he'd made the correct decision with regard to the uranium. "You were right, though."

Harry was sceptical, but he appreciated Malcolm saying it. "Perhaps." With more conviction, Harry looked back at his old friend. "You saved the boy, though, Malcolm."

Malcolm knew it was true, and he thought it a perfect note on which to leave. So he took a deep breath and simply said it. "Harry, I want to retire."

"What?" Harry, turned. He knew he was having some difficulty tracking thoughts, but he was certain Malcolm had just said he wanted to retire.

His voice soft, Malcolm said, "I'm too old for this. I'm dog-tired, really." Malcolm spoke without guile or hidden meaning, and Harry could see that he was completely serious about what he was saying.

But hard as he tried, Harry couldn't imagine the Grid without Malcolm. "You can't retire." And suddenly, Harry remembered that just two days ago he, himself, was planning to leave the Grid for good. For Ruth. Harry tried to imagine what Malcolm's reason would be, so he asked him, "What ... what will you do?"

Malcolm laughed and shrugged. "I don't know. Read books somewhere near the sea. I'm ready, Harry. Please don't try and stop me. I want to go now, otherwise I'll change my mind."

Harry felt his weariness begin to overtake him again, as he sat down behind his desk. And now, Harry remembered his talk with Malcolm on the way to Liverpool, and most especially, he recalled the look on Malcolm's face when he'd talked about his Sarah. _I walked out of her door all those years ago, and told her that I would always love her but that one day I would no longer love my job. That someday I would be back. She said she might not be there. I said I hoped she would be._

And Harry knew that Malcolm would find his way. He had a vision of him now, as he'd seen him when they'd visited Tom and Christine. Staring out at the sea with a book in his hands, filled with the contentment of a job well done, and fully deserving of the rest that comes with it.

"You've given such service." It was a statement, a fact, pure and simple, and Harry expressed it that way.

Malcolm gave a slight nod as acknowledgment. "Serving my country. In spite of everything that goes with it." If there were two people who knew what _everything that goes with it_ entailed, it was Harry and Malcolm. Harry could only imagine what it had been like for Malcolm to experience the possibility of watching a boy like Nico die in front of him.

He'd saved a young life today, and for that, if for nothing else, Malcolm deserved his own life in return. Harry knew he could make this easy or difficult for Malcolm, and he made a decision to release him as gracefully as he possibly could. In any case, they were friends, and always would be. Harry had no doubt that there would be many more drives to Liverpool, and, wherever Malcolm decided to settle, perhaps Harry would occasionally join him for a visit and a good read by the sea.

Harry looked up at Malcolm, and nodded to him with a smile. Now that he was more used to the idea, Harry was actually rather enjoying the vision of Malcolm off the Grid. In truth, Harry was happy for him.

"Then go home, Malcolm. Go home and rest." He reached his hand out, and Malcolm shook it, gratefully. The two men allowed a moment of recognition to pass between them, of the friendship that existed beyond the work and beyond this building, and then Malcolm turned to go.

He'd gotten as far as the door when Harry called out his name. "Malcolm?"

Malcolm turned back, afraid that Harry was going to try to change his mind. Instead, without looking at him, Harry asked, softly, "Did you have a poem planned for my memorial service? I bet you did."

A smile passed quickly over Malcolm's lips, his eyes sparkling. _Of course I did, you old dog. I've had it chosen for years, ready to pull out every time you've played the hero and gone foolishly where you shouldn't. But if you think I'll get maudlin now, you've another thought coming._

As he began to walk away, Malcolm said, still just on the verge of a smile, "But I'll never ... ever ... tell you what it was."

"Hmmm," Harry said, with a smile of his own. He was turning, finally, to say thank you to Malcolm, but when he looked in the doorway, his friend was gone.

Suddenly, Harry couldn't bear to think what that empty doorway signified, so he turned back toward the glass, and looked out at the Grid. Everything seemed normal. The night shift was moving quietly from task to task, Ros and Lucas were talking, and Jo was typing at her computer.

And now, Harry thought he deserved that drink. He poured one, walked to the window and took a welcome swallow. When he finished this drink, he would get in his car and go home. Home to the girls and to his empty bed. Back to the house that Ruth had called _their_ home.

She was in London, right now, and he hoped, at peace. He wished for her sake that she was dreaming, and that the forgetfulness of sleep was giving her distance from this terrible day. Perhaps in the recesses of her memory, where there was no anger, she was dreaming of a time when she was happy with him, and the possibilities had been endless. Perhaps of a time on a grassy hill in Bath.

Through the glass, Harry watched as Malcolm finished up the last of his tasks at his desk. Malcolm made the final click of his mouse and waited until the screen on his computer went dark, and then he stood and stared at the blank screen for just a moment. Harry saw an enigmatic smile transform Malcolm's face, and he realised that his friend was content with his decision.

And Harry thought, _That's all we can really ask for, isn't it? Peace with our decisions?_ Harry hoped, so fervently, that Ruth would find a way back to him. But in the end, Harry knew it was up to him to find his own peace.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-ONE**

* * *

Christina and Panos arrived in London the next day on the earliest flight. They were understandably full of questions, but they received only the most cursory bits of information about George's death. They were told that he had died in an "unfortunate accident," and although Panos berated anyone and everyone he could find, they'd gotten nothing more than that.

At the end of two days, Christina and Panos would take George's body back to his beloved Polis, and be folded into the warmth of a large and sorrowful family. They buried George in the small Constantinou cemetery to the north of the vineyard, and then were slowly pulled back into the relentless needs of the wine and the grapes.

During the two days Panos and Christina spent in London, Ruth had only one quick phone call and one very short meeting with them. The phone call was to tell them how to arrange the retrieval of George's body from the Cypriot Embassy in London. The meeting, also at the Embassy, was where Ruth released Nico into the custody of his aunt and uncle.

Jo counselled Ruth to have no contact with Christina and Panos, and to let others handle the arrangements, but Ruth refused. At the very least, she felt she owed them a share of her grief. In the phone call, Christina begged Ruth to tell her what had happened to her brother, but all Ruth would say, all she _could_ say, was that it was a terrible accident.

Once Christina realised she would get no more information, she refused any further conversation with Ruth. But there was still the matter of Nico. Ruth had no legal right to the boy, and in any case, he was still in a sort of shock and wanted badly to see his beloved Aunt Christina. Ruth wanted Nico to pass from her love to Christina's without strangers between, so on the day they arrived in London, she chose to take him to the Embassy herself, with Jo along as support.

Stepping into the wood-panelled room, Ruth swallowed hard. Panos and Christina stood opposite her, their arms locked in a united front, dressed darkly in intentional mourning, their faces grim. Their censure was so palpable that she had to work at keeping focused on them rather than letting her gaze drift anywhere else in the room. But she accepted the blame she saw in their eyes. Somehow, she needed the closure, and indeed, she seemed to need the final wave of guilt and grief they offered.

Ruth looked across at Christina's eyes, hoping to see some remnant of their time together, but there was nothing there. The warm friend of the vineyard was gone - as if that friend was also locked into the simple wooden casket that waited in another room. The Christina that stood in front of Ruth had red-rimmed eyes and a mouth as firm as steel, and appeared to be holding back an anger of monumental proportions. Christina's look was so clear in its accusation that no words were necessary.

Christina put out a hand silently, and beckoned Nico to come to her. Nico looked up at Ruth, and with tears in her eyes and her breath halting, Ruth opened her arms to him. He kept his eyes on her, and Ruth could see in them the loss of the life that George, Ruth and Nico had begun together. As he put his arms around her, Ruth thought that perhaps Nico had loved her just a bit, and another small crack made its way across her heart.

Ruth held Nico for just a moment longer than she intended, and she was immediately sorry, because she thought sadly that her last memory of Nico would be of him pulling away from her. He stepped back and looked at Ruth once more, then he walked to Christina, who put a protective arm around his shoulder.

Christina said only four words, her voice filled with contempt. "Now, leave us alone." Nico allowed himself one tiny wave and a tilt of his head, and then George's family was gone. The family that Ruth had learnt to think of as "her family" disappeared through the doorway, and Ruth simply stood looking at the empty place where they had been.

Jo spoke beside her, gently. "You handled that well, Ruth."

Ruth sighed and turned to her, "Thank you for being here. I'm not certain I could have gotten through this without you."

Jo said, "I've been honoured to do it, Ruth."

In silence, they walked back through the large black lacquered door to the street, but this time only two of them got into the car, as opposed to the three who had arrived in it. Jo asked the driver to take them back to the safe house, and as they pulled away, she asked Ruth, "Are you okay?"

Ruth turned and nodded, and even managed a weak smile. "I knew it would be hard, but it was inevitable." She looked out the window, and said, "I'm glad I did it, that I didn't leave it to someone else." She turned back to Jo and saw her look of concern. Reaching out to pat Jo's hand, Ruth said, "Really, I'm fine."

Ruth turned back to the window just as Jo's mobile rang.

Jo opened it, saying, "Yes?" She listened for a moment, her eyes focused straight ahead. "Yes, of course, I'll let you know."

Jo closed her phone and then paused for a moment before turning to Ruth. "Harry wants to talk to you. He was wondering if you'd be willing to meet him."

Ruth's heart jumped, and she marvelled again at the power Harry had over her. She hadn't spoken to him since the night she'd watched him walk out the door of the safe house. The ache of wanting him had become a sort of background noise in her life, except for a sharp pain now and then. Her anger with him was also a constant, and through the warring emotions, Ruth had been rather proud of her ability to get through the last two days without indulging her urge to see him again.

"What does he want to talk to me about?" Ruth knew she didn't really need to ask, and Jo's smile showed that she shared Ruth's understanding of that fact.

Ruth's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, as if she were going to say something, but then she stopped herself. Jo saw her discomfort, and finally broke the silence. "Ruth. About you and Harry? I think I know. You don't have to say anything now, although I'd be glad to listen if you want to tell me about it sometime."

Ruth sighed, and looked down at her hands. She'd kept the secret for so long, and now there didn't even seem to be a secret to keep anymore. But she was just vulnerable enough to know that her love for Harry was probably written clearly on her face. "Is it that obvious?"

Jo wanted to say that someone would have to be blind not to see it, but she decided to be a bit more tactful. "Perhaps not to everyone." Jo smiled, "I needed to find out whose carry-all it was at the safe house, so I looked inside."

For a moment, Ruth frowned, thinking, and then she said, softly, "Ah," which was quickly followed by a self-conscious smile, and a slight colouring of her cheeks. "I couldn't seem to let it go."

Jo said, "And that day in the hall? On the Grid? I really guessed then."

Suddenly, Jo's face turned serious. Ever since Jo had first seen Ruth, she'd known she would have to tell her, and now seemed to be the time. "I was the one who put the tracker in your coat pocket. I'm so sorry, Ruth. It was only meant to relieve some of the horrible depression of those days at work, but Ros saw you go to Maudsley's, and then ... "

Ruth squeezed Jo's hand to stop her, and said, shaking her head, "I knew. Harry told me. I've never blamed you for that, Jo. Never. That was a time that ... things spun out of control. It wasn't just one thing, it was as if the whole world was conspiring to ..."

"To separate you and Harry?" Jo said it so simply, and with such conviction, that Ruth heard the truth of it clearly, perhaps for the first time.

"Yes," Ruth said, and then laughed softly. "I suppose that sounds like a sort of delusion of grandeur, doesn't it? That the spinning world would stop its important business just to muck up one silly little romance?"

Jo smiled, "I would feel the same way, Ruth. And it's not silly. Now it all makes sense to me. Harry's moods, the whispered secrets, his meetings with Adam and Malcolm. Even Zaf." Jo's eyes clouded suddenly, and she looked out the car window. She spoke softly, as if she were far away. "I cared for him, you know?"

Ruth narrowed her eyes slightly, not wanting to assume anything. "Zaf? We all cared for him, Jo."

Jo turned. "No, I think I loved him. And I think he may have ... We were just on the verge ..." Jo's eyes filled now, and Ruth saw a pain there that she couldn't begin to describe.

Ruth put her hand on Jo's shoulder. "Oh, God, Jo. I'm so sorry." Ruth was suddenly filled with gratitude that Harry was alive, no matter what their relationship turned out to be. And again, she could see Zaf, sitting on the dock next to her, on that last grey day in London. _I smile at every pretty woman I pass_.

Regaining composure, Jo took a deep breath. "It's alright, really. It's slow going, but I'm getting through it." Her eyes took on an intensity as she looked at Ruth. "I can't change the fact that Zaf's gone, Ruth, but I do hate to see anyone turn their back on love that's offered."

Ruth's eyes widened for a moment, and then she looked away, and out her own window. "It's very complicated, Jo."

Jo smiled sadly. "Isn't it always? Just see him. What could it hurt?"

Ruth kept her eyes on the view outside, remembering how she'd felt two nights ago. _It can hurt quite a lot, actually._ But she also remembered how she'd worn her anger as a shield, and with the memory of having just said goodbye to Nico, and the look in Christina's eyes, Ruth thought her pain and anger were close enough to the surface to protect her. _And, God help me, I do want to see him_.

She turned to Jo and nodded. "Tell him yes." Then she added quickly, "But somewhere public, not inside."

Jo nodded, understanding. "The Millennium Bridge? Is that public enough for you?"

Ruth nodded. "Yes. When?"

Jo raised her eyebrows. "Now? He said as soon as possible."

Ruth took a deep breath. _It has to happen sometime. Now is as good a time as any_.

"Yes. Now."

* * *

Harry had waited as long as he possibly could. He didn't want to count the number of times he'd opened his mobile to call Jo, or how many times he'd wanted to find some pretence to bring her into his office. He'd longed to ask how Ruth was feeling, and to know what had happened with George's family.

But he hadn't called, and he hadn't asked. Harry had controlled his urges, reined in his questions, and poured his frustrations into his diary. Under normal circumstances, Harry would have felt justified in grilling his officers for detailed information regarding the aftermath of an operation, but he was determined not to use his position to pry into Ruth's life. He felt he'd already invaded her privacy enough as it was.

So he'd spent his time doing his job, as always. Harry got through the debrief with Dolby about Sarkiisian, Mani, and the uranium. He also tied up the loose ends regarding Connie and Qualtrough. So much had happened in such a short time, and none of the paperwork had been completed. Harry felt he'd spent the last few days wracking his brain for memories, reliving the horror, betrayal and heartbreak of the recent weeks in gruesome detail.

And against all odds, Harry had slept. He'd thought that he would be too anxious, too agitated about Ruth's return to sleep properly, but he'd underestimated his level of fatigue. For the last two nights, Harry had put his head on his pillow and surrendered himself to vivid dreams, full of sights and sounds that alternately soothed and confused him. Some were abstract renderings of Mani, Qualtrough and Sarkiisian- but there were a few dreams that were blessedly filled with the peace and comfort of Ruth's touch, her voice, and her loving presence.

Now Harry felt he had some decisions to make, and he'd managed to talk himself into believing that he needed to see Ruth in order to find out her plans. Of course, he knew that he could ask Jo to get the information he needed, but he set that thought aside because it would require telling Jo too much about his relationship with Ruth, breaking the confidentiality, the _secret_, they had established so long ago.

And Harry knew, on some level, that these thoughts were all part of an elaborate excuse. The unvarnished truth was that he longed for Ruth, for the sound and sight of her. It was a dull pain that never left him.

So, finally, he had called Jo. And now, Harry sat in his office on the Grid, waiting for an answer. Should Ruth say yes to a meeting, Harry had rehearsed what he would ask her. First, he would ask about her plans for the future, which would determine the rest of the questions. If she was going back to Cyprus or on to somewhere else, he would simply arrange whatever she wanted, and say goodbye with what he hoped would look something like dignity.

But if Ruth wanted to stay in London, there was the question of her house, which he hadn't yet sold and wanted to give back to her. There was also the question of the cats. He would, of course, send them to her, although he'd developed a grudgingly deep affection for the two maddening girls. Beyond domestic issues, there was the question of Ruth being cleared of guilt in Maudsley's death. And finally, the question of whether she had a desire to return to work at MI5.

Harry had promised himself he wouldn't ask Ruth about whatever feelings she still had, or didn't have, for him. In fact, he'd seen that she still loved him, but the more he contemplated it, the more he feared that too much had happened for their love to be salvaged. Ruth had said it was broken, and Harry was afraid that might be true.

Harry thought the best he could hope for was a friendship, and he loved Ruth so completely that he would count his blessings and accept whatever she might be willing to offer. These were all very rational thoughts, very mature and logical. Now, sitting at his desk, Harry put his head in his hands, aware that he had no idea if these thoughts had any basis in reality. He wouldn't really know how little of her he could accept, until he saw her again.

The ring of Harry's mobile startled him. With his elbows still leant on his desk, he looked at the screen. _Jo Portman_. His heart sped up, and he took a deep breath.

"Jo," he said, managing to keep his voice steady.

"She said yes. Millennium Bridge, north side, in half an hour? We're on our way now."

"Thank you, Jo." It wasn't just a thank you for the information, and Jo heard the depth of what he was feeling.

Harry closed his mobile and leant back in his chair, trying to calm his nerves. Every rational thought he'd had for the last few days had just disappeared with three words. _She said yes_. Suddenly he was as nervous as he'd been when he'd first asked her to dinner. As nervous as he'd felt when they'd driven to Bath, and as he'd been at Dover, waiting for her to arrive on the ferry.

Harry walked quickly out of his office, forgetting his coat. He stepped out of Thames House and felt the sun on his face, and he realised he wouldn't need it. It was a beautiful day. After three deep breaths, he turned toward the Millennium Bridge.

* * *

Ruth and Jo arrived first at the Bridge and stood looking out at the water. Ruth squinted against the sun reflecting off the river, and watched the crowds of people enjoying the warmth of the day after nearly a week of gloomy rain.

Jo could almost feel Ruth preparing herself to see Harry again. It was as if she was putting on armour, her frown deepening with every passing moment. She wanted to talk to Ruth, to ask her how she was feeling, but Ruth seemed to need privacy, so Jo stayed silent.

Finally, Ruth turned, and said "I don't know how long we'll be. I'm not sure what he wants to say to me."

Jo smiled. "That's alright. I'll wait here for you." Jo looked up at the sun, which brought on a bigger smile. "I've pulled worse duties, believe me."

Ruth smiled back at her, and then, over Jo's shoulder, she caught sight of Harry in the distance, walking toward them. Her smile faded, and as her heart began to race she forced herself to remember Nico at the Embassy, and the look in Christina's eyes. Jo saw the change in Ruth, and turned to where her eyes were focused. She saw Harry too, and when she turned back, Jo saw the complex blend of love, fear and anger that ran across Ruth's face.

Jo put a hand on her arm, gently. "Just listen to what he has to say."

"Yes. Yes, I'll do that." In Ruth's clipped tone, Jo could hear that the tug of war had been won by anger. She squeezed Ruth's arm once, and then stepped aside, leaving her alone at the rail.

Harry walked up to Ruth, and after two days of planning, he was tongue-tied. She didn't turn to look at him, although he stood only a few feet from her. "Hello," he said, somewhat hoarsely, and cleared his throat.

Finally, she turned. Ruth thought he looked nervous, and that fact threatened her self-control more than anything he could have said. She steeled herself further. "Hello." Her voice came out with an icy tone that gave her courage. But she was feeling decidedly more warmth than ice as she looked at him.

Since she'd been back in London, Ruth had only seen Harry in a broken, exhausted state, first in the warehouse, and then, still going on no sleep, at the safe house. Of course she had loved him then, but now he looked rested, his eyes bright, and she felt herself being pulled, magnetically attracted to him, and nearly unable to fight it. This was her compelling Harry, dressed in crisp, white shirt, and wearing the lovely silver-grey tie she had run through her fingers more than once.

Ruth longed to touch him, to rest her hand on his cheek, to lean up and kiss him. Every resolution she'd made was quickly vanishing. She turned back to face the river, to prevent him from looking too closely at her eyes and seeing her feelings laid out there.

In silence, Ruth tried to understand what was going on inside her. One part of her asked, _What would happen if I simply let go and loved him?_ And the answer that came was inextricably wrapped up in the death of an innocent man, and her respect for his memory. It seemed every time Ruth imagined herself happy with Harry, George's face came into view, or worse, that horrible vision of him falling to his knees on the grass.

As Ruth looked out at the water, she began to understand. It had to do with her own idea of herself. She didn't want to think of herself as the type of person who could watch a man die - be the _cause_ of it - and then move blithely on to happiness. And ironically, the pain of that understanding gave Ruth the edge she needed now, standing with Harry.

Ruth was determined to deny herself the happiness that might be offered, and the injustice of the position she was in brought her anger to the surface in a way nothing else could. As she stood with her hands gripping the rail, she felt it well up inside her, giving her strength.

Harry swallowed, and adjusted his tie slightly. After one quick glance, Ruth hadn't met his eyes again, and he could feel her putting distance between them. Perhaps if they weren't simply standing here, it would be easier. He tilted his head toward the Bridge. "Would you like to walk?"

Ruth welcomed the idea of movement, so she nodded to him, "Yes."

They walked up the incline in silence. Ruth could feel that Harry was struggling with how to begin. Finally, she simply asked him. "What is it that you wanted to talk to me about, Harry?"

Harry began with what he'd rehearsed in his head, but it sounded stilted to him now, "I wanted to be certain that you were alright, that you had everything you needed ..." He was clearly grasping for words, and Ruth was determined not to help him.

She turned to look at him, her tone slightly sardonic, "Well, I don't suppose _alright_ is the word I'd use to describe my current state of mind."

Harry shrugged apologetically, "No, not alright, of course not, I simply wanted to be certain you were getting on ... and that ... the boy ... your ... " Harry couldn't think how to ask Ruth what her plans were regarding the boy. And on top of it all, in his nervousness, Harry had suddenly forgotten his name.

Ruth pursed her lips. She was remembering what Harry had said to Mani. _I won't tell you. And if I won't tell you now, killing the child is totally pointless. What would you have then? A dead child and no uranium_. Yes, this was helping, Ruth thought, as she felt the distance increase further between her heart and Harry's.

"Nico," Ruth said flatly.

"Yes," Harry said, remembering now. _Nico_.

"His aunt came to take him home."

"But you're the... " Harry started to say, _the boy's stepmother_, but Ruth interrupted him.

"No, I'm not. I'm not anything, Harry." For a moment, Ruth wondered why Harry didn't already know these things, and then she realised that he must not have looked at the paperwork from the debrief she had done with Jo. If he had, he would know that she and George weren't married, and that she had no legal right to Nico. It was beginning to dawn on Ruth that perhaps Harry hadn't cared enough to look. His next question confirmed it.

Clearly confused, Harry said, "George was your _husband_."

And suddenly, Ruth thought, _What have I been worried about? If he hasn't even checked to be sure George and I were married, how much could he actually care?__ My Harry wouldn't have been able to stop himself. __No worry about keeping your heart protected, Ruth. _Gratefully, she felt the armour fold around her, shielding her, and she was safe.

Now Ruth didn't need to force the coldness, as it came naturally. "We were never formally married. There was no ceremony. We talked about it, laughed about who we wouldn't invite."

Harry nearly stopped in his tracks. _Not_ her husband? Not Ruth Constantinou. Not married. Still his Ruth, still married only to him. Harry felt an elation rise up in his chest that threatened to show itself in a smile, although he realised how very inappropriate that would be. _We were never formally married_.

In that one simple statement, Harry felt some hope return. She hadn't given that part of herself to George.

Harry was surprised that he was managing to keep his voice even. "Couldn't you go back?" What he really wanted to ask was if she _wanted_ to go back.

With sarcasm dripping from her voice, Ruth asked, "What kind of a welcome party do you think they'll throw for me?" Ruth kept her eyes forward, and they walked in silence for a moment. Harry could hear that Ruth was still very angry with him, but her next statement was even worse. "You would have let him die." The accusation was made coldly, as a statement of fact, and she might as well have added what Harry heard in his head, _You heartless bastard_.

Harry looked away. He'd known this would come up with Ruth. Even when he'd challenged Mani about the boy, Harry had known that it would be the decision he would carry forever, no matter the outcome. How could he explain to Ruth that he'd seen not only Nico, but so many other children that would die?

Harry had thought that someday he would hear Ruth say those words, _You would have let him die_. But he'd thought it would be later, during a long discussion, at a time when he could defend himself in a relatively rational manner. Not here, not now, in their first real meeting since that terrible day.

Hoping she would let it go until later, Harry said, "I'm not asking for forgiveness, Ruth."

Ruth barely let him finish saying the words before she cut him off. "What are you asking for then?" The discussion had suddenly become too painful for her, especially hot on the heels of the goodbye she had just said to Nico. Harry was offering no explanations, no sharing of her grief, and he hadn't even taken the time to find out that she and George weren't married, for God's sake. Ruth allowed herself the pettiness of thinking that he must have been too busy with his all-important job. _Nothing has changed. Nothing ever will_.

Harry knew that this was going very badly, but he couldn't seem to put the train back on the rails. He took a breath, and said, as calmly as he could, "I came to tell you that..." He thought frantically, _What was it I wanted to say? That I want to help her. That I will do anything for her. She's not going back to Cyprus, so that means she's staying here. _Harry finally managed to finish the sentence, "I will sort something out for you."

Ruth's sarcastic tone was back. "Sort something out?"

_First things, first._ Harry had to get her name cleared. "With regard to your ... status in this country."

Her words clipped, Ruth said, "You have a knighthood, Harry and ... er ... I'm dead. _There's_ our status."

All Harry could think of was to continue with what he'd practiced in his head, step by step. _First, clear her name, then a job._ He spoke faster, wanting to be sure he said it all, "I want to make it better. And if you need work ... "

"Oh, God." Ruth actually laughed, but not a laugh with any mirth in it. She managed to fill her exclamation with ridicule, as if what Harry was saying was absurd, and that's what she was feeling. He'd dropped her on an island, left her completely alone, and he didn't think she knew how to get a bloody job for herself? Ruth turned away from him, and as she did, she suddenly felt him grab hold of her arm, not roughly, but firmly.

Harry pulled her round so that she was facing him. He knew he'd said the wrong thing. Now, all he could do was to try to salvage this conversation, to calm her down so that she could hear what he really wanted to say. And what he wanted most to express to her was that he loved her, more dearly than ever, and would do whatever she wanted him to, if she would only tell him.

But they stood in the middle of a bridge that was filled with people. Harry spoke passionately, but almost in a whisper, "Ruth, I'm trying! I'm trying. With all my limitations, which you know better than anybody."

He could see almost immediately that she wasn't having any of it. Her words were cold, and full of frustration. "Yes. Yes, well, you know, thanks for that. Thanks for _trying_." And with that, she turned on her heel and continued walking. For a moment, Harry thought of going after her, but he knew Ruth well enough to know that this was not the time or the place. He could only hope that there would be another time, and another place, when he could express himself more clearly, and she would listen.

Harry watched Ruth, her pace quick and her coat flapping in the wind off the water. The ache in his heart had subsided for just a bit as they'd walked together, but now it was beginning again, in earnest. He watched her, as he had watched her step onto the boat after she'd kissed him goodbye on her way to Paris, and then again, in Dover.

Harry released a heavy sigh as his shoulders dropped in resignation. He stood for just a little longer, gazing at the lovely figure as it grew smaller in the distance. Hers was a stride that was sure, confident, and very much Ruth. He loved watching her walk.

But Harry wished he wasn't always watching Ruth walk away.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TWO**

* * *

Harry approached the end of the Bridge and saw Jo, still standing at the rail. He walked up to her and turned so that he could gaze down at the part of the walkway he'd just left. He was hoping that he would see Ruth walking toward him, but she was nowhere in sight.

He was silent for a time, leaning on the rail with Jo, and she let him be. Jo was beginning to wonder if he was going to speak at all, when he took a deep breath and stood up straight.

"Ruth is ... upset," Harry said, and turned to look at her.

Jo wasn't certain what to say, but she knew that she wasn't going to break the confidentiality she'd just established with Ruth unless she was asked a direct and relevant question. So she simply nodded, and said, "Yes." But Harry suddenly looked so lost that she said, kindly, "Give her time. She's been through so much. It's a lot to work through."

Right now, Harry wasn't certain there was any amount of "working through" that could solve this, but he nodded back to Jo, and tried to offer a benign smile. "I'm sure you're right," he said. Harry took a step backward. "Will you wait here for her? She was walking in the other direction when I last saw her, but I imagine she'll turn around and come back to you."

Jo moved around him, and started up the walkway. "I could use a walk myself. I'll meet her."

"Jo," Harry called out. She stopped, and Harry said, simply, "I appreciate the work you've done over the last few days."

Giving him a bright smile, Jo said, "I was glad to do it, Harry," and turned again. Harry watched her for a moment, and then turned back toward Thames House.

As he walked, Harry tried to sort out his feelings, but it didn't take him long to realise that he was overwhelmed with the unfairness of the position in which he found himself. The other night, Malcolm had told Harry that he'd done the right thing. Since that evening, Harry had thought ceaselessly about how he might have handled it differently, but he had yet to come up with another scenario.

In the last year, Harry had felt the loss of Ruth terribly, but he'd found some measure of peace with it. Four days earlier, he'd been ready to go to Cyprus to find her. He hadn't known then about George, but at least he could have stood face-to-face with George and fought for the woman he loved. Now Harry felt as if he'd been cast in the role of the villain, the bastard, and the scorn he'd just seen in Ruth's eyes told him how difficult it would be to convince her otherwise.

So there was a rage in Harry, a complex set of emotions that seethed just beneath the surface of the self-control and self-denial that was so much a part of him. And although Harry usually had a plan of attack when he felt defenceless against an enemy, he could find no way around the crushing weight of what he was feeling. If Ruth wouldn't talk to him, if she wouldn't listen, then he could find no solution.

By the time Harry stepped on to the Grid, he was ready for a fight. He'd barely come through the doors when Ros walked up to him. "We have a problem," she said.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "When don't we?" He tilted his head toward his office and put his hand out, indicating she should lead the way. Ros walked briskly through the door, and he followed her, closing the door behind him. Actually Harry was glad to have something that would take his mind off his disastrous meeting with Ruth. "Give her time," Jo had said. _Well, then, give me something I can sink my teeth into in the meantime._

Ros didn't seem to want to sit, so Harry simply perched on the edge of his desk facing her, and asked, "What's going on?"

Ros' tone told him it was serious. "There's been an explosion at the Western Sands Gas Processing Plant in Essex." She saw Harry's immediate reaction, and Ros answered the question before he could ask it, "Not terror-related. An accident." Harry nodded, and Ros continued. "No casualties, despite the presence of a full workforce, and an entire classroom of children. Emergency services did their job, but the plant was nearly destroyed. They're assessing the scale of the damages now. The early word is that it will take at least six months to get it up and running again."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "That's too long."

Ros nodded. "The Home Secretary would like to meet with us as soon as possible."

* * *

When she reached the south end of the Bridge, Ruth turned and began the walk back. Her anger had dissipated somewhat and she thought of Harry, but again, George intruded. _Another death_.

Ruth wondered how many more times she would say goodbye to someone she cared for. And then she remembered how close it had come to being her own life that was lost, her throat slashed by Mani's knife. _Or Harry_. She and Harry might have both been laying still and cold, as George was now. And perhaps Nico and Malcolm as well, caught in the crossfire.

Ruth looked out to the water, and continued walking, wearily. It hadn't turned out as badly as it could have, but the phrase _collateral damage_ seemed appallingly insufficient to describe George's death. His was the death of a beloved father, a cherished brother, a respected doctor, a generous neighbour, and a friend to countless people on the small island where he had lived. And Ruth knew that she and Harry were the reason he had died. The question she asked herself as she walked was, _Who am I more angry with? Harry? Or myself?_

Coming from the other side of the Bridge, Jo saw Ruth at a distance, in among the crowds of people. Ruth was walking slowly with hands in her coat pockets and her head down, and Jo could only think that she looked small, and very alone. As they approached each other, Jo tried to imagine what the last two years had been like for Ruth. Exiled from all that she loved - country, home, job, and Harry. She'd finally found another life, a new family, and now those were gone as well.

Ruth looked up and saw Jo, and gave her a sad smile. Jo turned when she reached her, and they fell into a slow, easy stride together. Ruth said softly, "I've treated Harry badly, but I can't seem to get past what happened."

Jo took her arm. "We all know what you've gone through, Ruth."

Ruth stopped walking and looked gratefully at Jo for a moment. Then she leant her head toward the railing, saying, "Would you mind?" They were almost exactly in the middle of the Thames. Jo shook her head, and they walked over and stood in silence for a moment. Jo could tell that Ruth wanted to say something, so she waited.

Finally, Ruth spoke, but she kept her eyes out at the water. "When I first saw you on the Grid, I saw something in your eyes. Something very familiar. After my debrief, I asked Ros what had happened to you whilst I've been gone, and she told me about the Redbacks. No details, just that you'd been held by them for a time." Now Ruth turned and looked at Jo. "You know, don't you, that Yalta nearly sold me to them?"

Jo's face was impassive, and took on the stone-like quality of alabaster. She said matter-of-factly, "Yes."

"I wanted to tell you that I understand that feeling of ... utter powerlessness. And if you ever want to talk about it ... " Ruth gave Jo a small nod, and said, "I'll listen."

Jo released the breath she was holding, and turned to look at the water. She answered softly, "Thank you."

Ruth turned too, and gazed at the Thames. "And I also wanted to tell you that for the last few days, I've felt as if I was still locked in that room. Powerless. As if things have been happening _to_ me, out of my control." Ruth paused for a moment, and then finished her thought. "The only thing that seems to make it better is being angry."

Jo smiled sadly. "I know. But it doesn't really make it better, does it?" she asked, still looking over the railing. They stood for a few minutes, and then Jo said, "I would like to talk to you about it sometime, if that's alright. But not now." She turned and looked at Ruth.

"Whenever you want, Jo," Ruth said.

Jo's mobile rang, and she pulled it from her pocket. "Yes. Yes, right away." She closed the phone and shrugged at Ruth. "I'll take you back to the safe house now, if that's okay?"

Ruth allowed a small laugh to escape, as she shook her head. "God, that life. I'd forgotten." She started to walk again, and Jo fell in beside her.

Trying to sound casual, Jo asked, "Would you ever come back, Ruth?"

Ruth started to say, _Never_, but she had to acknowledge the spark of curiosity that was, even now, growing inside her. Obviously, it had been a phone call from the Grid, and Jo's presence was needed right away. Involuntarily, somewhere in Ruth's mind, the questions began to line up. _Why? What's going on? _And for Ruth, the most important questions were always, _What needs to be accomplished, and who will do it? Who will figure out the puzzle?_

If Jo had asked her that question just a day ago, she might have said, "Never." But as Ruth walked beside her, she felt Jo's excitement, and the familiar energy that came with a new challenge, a fresh adversary.

Turning to Jo, Ruth said, slowly, "There's so much that's happened. I don't know what I want right now." Ruth shrugged, and looked ahead again. "But if the last two years have taught me anything, it's that nothing is certain."

* * *

Harry and Ros left the Home Secretary's office with clear orders. Since Britain's energy policy was based on importing and processing gas, the Western Sands explosion made it necessary for the country to find another source. Russia was out of the question, and Norway was already supplying most of the piped gas being used in Britain. That left Tazbekstan.

Harry and Ros knew that they had little choice, despite the fact that the Tazbeks had an abysmal human rights record, and that their new government had come to power in a coup. The delegation from Tazbekstan was already in London, and they were anxious to make friends. Harry was tasked with "shaking hands," as it were.

The Home Secretary had told them that Britain's gas reserves wouldn't last more than a week, and that it was a high priority to keep that news from the press. A quick deal had to be made with the Tazbeks, unsavoury as that idea might be.

As she and Harry walked down the long hallway and reached the top of the stairs, Ros had an additional concern. If she had to categorise it, Ros would say that Harry simply wasn't himself. She certainly knew his moods could be formidable, but this was different. Harry wasn't just distant and cold, he seemed to be fuming, doing battle with himself. And Ros knew that sort of inner battle could negatively affect judgement.

She had a good idea why Harry was angry, and Ros knew she needed to face it head on. She didn't think he would discuss it, but she thought she'd give it a try. So, almost offhandedly, she asked, "Have you spoken to Ruth?"

Not surprisingly, Harry shrugged off the question. "Right now, my most urgent business is the gas crisis."

_So he's not talking_, Ros thought. She would seek out Jo when she got back to the Grid and see what she'd learned from Ruth. And Ros had to agree, they would have their hands full dealing with the energy issues in front of them. "Can't believe they let that happen," she said, as Harry led the way down the stairs.

Harry's voice had a razor sharp edge to it. "Bloody disgraceful we didn't build up reserves when we produced the stuff!"

Ros followed him out the door, thinking, _Yes, Harry is definitely very angry_.

* * *

Jo left Ruth at the safe house, and headed back to the Grid. Outside Thames House, she watched Malcolm's replacement, Tariq Masood, peel himself from the bonnet of a car that had inconveniently crossed paths with his bicycle.

"That's my social life sorted for the next two weeks," Tariq said, looking at the tangled mess that was once his bike. But he smiled at Jo good-naturedly and said, "Come on, I want to walk in with somebody on my first day."

With some help from Lucas, Jo quickly got Tariq settled into his workstation. On her way to the meeting room, Ros walked behind Lucas, and said icily, "What is _that_?"

Lucas smiled at her tone. "Malcolm's replacement. Jo's been showing him the ropes." Seeing the look on Ros' face, he laughed. "Lighten up, Ros, it's service modernisation."

Ros was clearly not impressed. "Tell him to lose the t-shirt, we're not the bloody NME awards."

As they rounded the corner into the meeting room, they saw Jo hand a file folder to Harry. Ros and Lucas sat down as Lucas clicked the remote and a photo came up on the viewing screen.

Looking at the screen, Ros said, "Okay, Rustam Urazov is the Tazbek Trade and Industry Secretary and our biggest potential headache. From now on, his codename will be 'Thumper.'"

Lucas followed up. "We have intelligence that Thumper's going to spice up his visit by taking out this woman..." Lucas clicked again, and a young woman's face appeared on the screen, as he continued, "Bibi Saparova. She's an exiled poet from a prominent Tazbek family that Thumper waged a personal vendetta against. Her father was imprisoned and tortured, her mother killed herself, and her younger sister was murdered. Bibi's the last of the Saparovas and the missing head in his trophy cabinet."

Harry hadn't spoken until now, and the vitriol in his voice made all three of them turn. "She's also the bloody nuisance organising these protests at the Tazbek delegation's hotel."

Ros found herself in the unusual position of trying to soften Harry's statement a bit. "A good-looking exiled poet. Goes down well in Hampstead."

Harry wasn't interested in softening his stance, and his tone remained harsh. "Yeah, I'm _not_ having her disrupting such important talks. I mean, how did she even know where the delegation was?"

Jo was worried by what she was hearing, and felt a need to say so. "Okay, she might be a pain, but letting Thumper wipe out his enemies on our soil is taking hospitality a bit far, I'd have thought."

Harry looked at her. "So let's keep Bibi out of the picture. I want to know everywhere she goes and everyone she talks to. Nothing and nobody gets in the way of their signature on that document."

The subsequent meeting with the Tazbeks was strained to say the least. Urazov was an impossibly smug man, and Bibi was not cooperating by keeping a low profile. After a long day of trying to put the pieces together, Ros stepped into Harry's office. She'd already stopped one attempt on Bibi's life by Urazov. "You know he's going to kill her, don't you? Bibi Saparova?"

If possible, Ros thought that Harry was in an even more foul mood than he'd been in the morning. He fairly growled at her. "I want Bibi to shut up, and I want leverage over the Tazbeks."

Ros felt this operation was beginning to cross a line. "I just think we have things in this country that they don't have in Tazbekstan. And giving them up for ... _gas_ ... it just offends my sense of national dignity."

Harry was clearly not in the mood for a discussion. "You know that the gas running out will lead to more deaths than any terror attack Al Qaeda have mounted so far." His voice raised a notch. "No poet with a grudge is going to threaten our energy security while you and I have anything to do with it." He looked pointedly at Ros. "Are we in agreement about that?"

Ros could see she was getting nowhere. Suitably chastised, she lowered her eyes, and said, "Absolutely." She left Harry's office and walked out to the Grid. Touching Lucas on the shoulder, she said, "A moment?" and walked toward the meeting room.

Although Ros had no desire to go behind Harry's back, she needed an ally. Sitting at the meeting room table, she and Lucas talked about the attempt on Bibi's life. Ros said, "It looks like they were trying to abduct her rather than kill her. I'm assuming they wanted to deliver her to Thumper personally."

In a matter-of-fact tone, Lucas said, "Well, we can't let that happen."

Ros exhaled. "Have you seen Harry's mood recently? He'd see protecting Bibi as a luxury the nation can't afford right now."

Lucas smiled. "Ros, Harry's always troubled. He chooses his frown with his tie in the morning."

Ros shook her head. "No, this is different. He still hasn't resolved the situation with Ruth. And until he does, he'll take an even grimmer view of any human rights activists that get in the way of the energy crisis talks than I do."

They decided that the best way to protect Bibi, and to placate Harry, was to keep Bibi quiet. Lucas sent Jo to try and persuade her to take a long holiday until the negotiations were concluded. Jo tried, but Bibi put her answer in the form of a question. "And if he had killed every member of your family ... would you just shut up and go away?"

* * *

For two days, Harry had asked questions of Jo about Ruth. How did she seem to be coping? Had she mentioned any plans? He did it casually, as if the answer was unimportant, but Jo had no real answers anyway. She had certainly talked with Ruth, but she'd been unable to discuss anything of meaning, and Jo hadn't pushed. She'd gotten the feeling that Ruth was closed down, trying to heal, as if a scab was forming over the wound of the previous days. Jo thought that might be a good thing.

Finally, after another of Harry's questions, and another of Jo's uninformative replies, Harry had lost his temper. "Well, then, I suppose your energies are best spent on our nuisance renegade poet. Leave Ruth to her own devices, and do your job here!" He'd stormed away, leaving Jo with the feeling that she was no longer authorised to meet with Ruth.

But after breaking the rules by disclosing to Bibi that she was an officer with MI5, Jo was feeling a bit like a renegade herself.

* * *

"_It is with great regret that I must inform the House that the rolling power cuts will be from three to five hours. I cannot pretend there is an early solution to the problem that faces us, although I can promise this House that this Government is pursuing every option available to us and I hope to have good news to bring to the House very shortly."_

Ruth sipped her cup of tea as she watched Nicholas Blake speak to the nation. She knew that Britain was in deep trouble if it had gone this far. She'd now been back in London for only five days, and already she was thinking _we_, when she thought of Britain.

Ruth walked to the window of the safe house, and looked out. No ocean, no warm Cypriot breeze, and no hurriedly-spoken Greek wafting through the open window. She had loved Cyprus in her way, but not the way she loved London. As Ruth gazed at the buildings beyond the quiet street, she felt enveloped by the city, and utterly at home. She remembered her initial thoughts of leaving here, of going as far away as possible, and Ruth realised now that it was the last thing she wanted to do. She'd been away for so long, and the idea of wandering off again filled her with a homesickness that had been all too familiar in the last two years.

But her home, her Britain, was clearly going through hard times._ This Government is pursuing every option available to us... _The Home Secretary's words were still in her ears. Ruth knew that meant that MI5, and Harry, were pursuing every option available. And again, Ruth began to imagine the activity of the Grid, as she used to in Paris. And she saw Harry there, doing what he'd always done so well. Finding solutions.

Ruth filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. As she did, she blotted a bit of water from the hem of her blouse, and smiled. All of her Paris clothes had suddenly appeared at her door, in the arms of an MI5 officer. She'd spent almost an entire day going through them, hanging them up and folding them neatly into the drawers of the safe house bedroom.

They'd given her a sort of link to her past, to one of the women she'd been in the last two years, and she had to admit that Sophie was a kinder person to spend the day with than the Ruth of Cyprus. The clothes also made her think of Isabelle, and how much she wanted to see her. If Ruth were to go somewhere far away, Isabelle would be another person she would never see again. Ruth was getting very tired of leaving people behind.

She had to confess to herself that she felt a twinge of disappointment that there was no necklace and no ring in the boxes of possessions. She remembered that she had asked Harry to go to her flat in Paris and retrieve her things, and he had obviously done so. But either he hadn't found those two pieces of jewellery, or, more likely, he believed that she now had no wish to see them again.

Ruth had thought over her conversation with Harry on the bridge so many times in the last two days that she practically had it memorised. And depending on which end of the spectrum her mood bounced to, she could remember herself as either horribly unfair or utterly justified in what she'd said to him, and everything in between. There were times when Ruth thought she might be going quite mad, actually, as she could travel the length of that spectrum in moments, and back again.

As Ruth poured out the water, she wondered who would emerge - the Ruth that could never forgive Harry for what he'd done, or the woman who loved him deeply, and knew she always would. Today, Ruth was missing her friend Harry, the one who would sit and listen attentively as she laid out her choices, the man who would make her laugh when her melancholy threatened to smother her completely. She missed his mind, his good sense, his intellect, and although she wanted not to, she missed his touch.

But Ruth's anger was still within reach, just under the surface. All that was necessary was remembering - Harry saying "I won't tell you" coldly to Mani, George falling to his knees, the look in Nico's eyes, or Christina's cold distance. Or Ruth could conjure the view of the sea from the mountain house, her burgeoning herb garden, the sweet innocence of Polis, and the modicum of peace she'd found away from MI5. If she dwelt for a moment on any of these thoughts, she could slink back beneath the armour, which was a safer place than feeling her desire for Harry.

Ruth walked back to the window and pulled up a chair so that she could look out and enjoy her second cup of tea. Although she felt protected when she was angry, over the last two days a realisation had been dawning slowly for Ruth. Her anger was requiring something of her that she didn't really think she could sustain. It required her to feel the victim, to feel sorry for herself, as if she'd been tossed and turned by others' decisions, with no power of her own. That may have been true for a time, but the question Ruth was asking herself was: _Now what? Do I stay angry forever, separate myself from every reminder of recent events and invent still another new life?_

Ruth had never been a fan of people who wallowed in "Oh, poor me." At a certain point, it seemed she would have to pick herself up and find a way to live with whatever had happened to her. To figure out, _Now what?_ Otherwise, mightn't she simply pull the covers over her head and call it a day?

The sound of the phone startled her. Ruth stood and put down her cup to answer it. It could only be one of two people: Either Amanda Clarke, who made regular calls to check on Ruth since she'd stopped staying over two nights ago - or Jo, who was the only other one who had the number.

It was Jo, and Ruth could hear that she was in some distress. "I need to see you, Ruth. Can you meet me?"

"Of course. Do you want to come here?"

Jo paused, and then said, "No, not the safe house. This meeting is not entirely ... erm ... on the radar."

Ruth understood that to mean that no one on the Grid knew that Jo was asking to see her. Ruth couldn't imagine why that would be necessary, but she was grateful enough for all that Jo had done for her that she wouldn't ask questions. "No problem. Where, then?"

"Can you meet me on the steps at the Royal Albert Hall? Is half an hour too soon?" Ruth heard the urgency that Jo was trying to mask. "Do you mind taking the tube? I don't want to sign out a car, if that's okay?"

Ruth thought she'd like to get out, anyway. She told Jo, "I'll see you there in half an hour."

Thirty minutes later, Ruth watched as Jo walked up the steps to her. She smiled at Jo, genuinely glad to see her again.

"Thanks for coming," Jo said, slightly breathless.

Ruth still had no idea what Jo wanted to talk to her about, but she had decided to be patient and wait until Jo told her. She looked up as Jo came to sit on the top step. "How's it all going?"

Jo repeated the question with a sigh, "How's it all going? Well, the gas negotiations are underway."

Ruth nodded. "I saw the Home Secretary on TV. We're in a very bad place right now." Before she'd known she'd said it, there was that word again. _We_. Ruth felt a sudden pull, the same one she'd felt when Jo had left her the other day to go to the Grid. Ruth remembered telling Harry about her "simple and elegant" life in Polis, and she realised that this was the feeling that had been missing in that life. The pull of wanting to know what was going on behind the scenes. The secrets.

And right now, Jo was sharing one of those secrets. "The hidden price for our salvation is that we have to turn away, while a rapist and murderer gets to pick off his opponents on our soil."

Ruth had been getting the newspapers, just as she had every day in Paris and on Cyprus. And although nothing had been confirmed, there had been rumblings about Tazbekstan, and Rustam Urazov. Ruth knew the Tazbek's human rights record, and had also had read of Urazov's personal inclinations. Jo could only be talking about him. But if what Jo was saying was true, MI5 was sanctioning Urazov's behaviour by allowing him complete freedom to do as he liked in Britain. And if that were the case, those orders would come from the top. Ruth turned to Jo, frowning. It was the particular, disapproving frown that Harry would be glad he wasn't there to see.

"Harry okayed that?" Ruth asked.

Now the conversation was down to what Jo had wanted to talk about in the first place. "Harry's not himself right now."

Still frowning, Ruth felt a need to find out why Jo had asked her here, although she was beginning to suspect why. "What do you want from me?"

"Talk to Harry," Jo said simply.

_Of course_, Ruth thought, turning away. _Everybody's so bloody afraid of Harry Pearce and his bluster, but Ruth will know what to say, won't she?_ Ruth knew exactly what Jo was implying, that the lack of communication between Harry and Ruth was affecting his work. Apart from the fact that Ruth wasn't sure she could _ever_ affect Harry's beloved work, it seemed to show a lack of confidence on Jo's part. Ruth didn't believe that her silence would affect Harry enough that he would go against his principles.

Ruth shook her head, but she couldn't stifle a smile. "Isn't that a rather insulting idea to Harry? You think he makes policy decisions based on his emotional state of mind?"

"No, I'm not saying that. But no one's better than you at putting across a different perspective."

Ruth looked sceptically at Jo. "It doesn't always work, believe you me." Ruth had no doubt that Harry would always do what he thought best, no matter what her perspective might be.

Jo's voice was soft, and full of feeling. "He's hurting. About what happened..."

Ruth interrupted her, and although she hated it, she felt the victim re-emerging. "And I'm not? I lost my family, my home."

"Harry wasn't the one who lost them for you. He did the right thing under intolerable pressure."

Ruth snapped back, "Maybe he's doing the right thing now, then."

Jo wasn't giving up. "No. This is different. But I think that he's locked in to thinking it's the same."

"And you want _me_ to explain that?" Ruth knew exactly what Jo was talking about. She'd read about Bibi Saparova and her story in the newspaper. Ruth had no doubt that the "rapist and murderer" Jo was talking about was Urazov, and that the opponent he was trying to "pick off" on British soil was Bibi Saparova. So Harry was faced again with the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the one, and again he was probably choosing to save many lives by solving the gas crisis, whilst considering the girl reasonable collateral damage. Just as George had been.

And now, after Ruth had been unable to convince Harry to save George's life, Jo thought she could change his mind about saving Bibi Saparova. Although it was a noble cause, Ruth wanted to say no. But there was one small problem. She'd been thinking all morning that it was time to talk to Harry. And now she was glad Jo had brought her this request, because it also gave her a reason to see him.

Jo could see that Ruth's thoughts were churning. "We've missed you, Ruth. We've missed you badly. But no one more than Harry. We shouldn't be sacrificing this girl, no matter how bad the crisis. Please talk to him." Jo stood, and walked down the steps, without another word.

Ruth sat for a long time, watching the people as they walked by, listening to the sounds around her. Everything had happened so fast. A week ago, she'd been in the mountain house with George, trying to imagine if it would be possible for her to spend the rest of her life with him. She seemed to recall that she'd decided that she couldn't.

Now George was dead, and she'd been thrust back to life in London, and to Harry. It wasn't surprising that it had taken her less time to readjust to England than it had taken to accustom herself to a life away from it. As she looked around her, everything felt familiar. What she was seeing, the sounds of people speaking and their accents, even the feel of the air around her, were all like old friends greeting her. Friends she hadn't seen for two years, but had longed for.

And as she sat on the steps, for the first time she tried to put herself in Harry's position in that chair opposite her in the warehouse. She tried to imagine the responsibility he carried squarely on his shoulders, not just for Ruth and George and Nico, but for all of Britain, and her people. What terrible damage really could have been done with that uranium if it had fallen into the wrong hands?

And suddenly, Ruth remembered what she had said to Harry long ago. _You have to make the hard decisions. We all have the luxury of judging them._ Yes, she was angry, hurt, and felt lost, but Harry must be feeling all of that as well. And, in addition, he had to make choices that Ruth would never wish upon anybody.

Jo wanted her to talk to Harry, and she would. She would try to convince him that this was a situation where both the girl and the negotiations could be saved. But beyond that, Ruth needed to apologise.

On her first night at the safe house, Jo had given Ruth a mobile with the Grid numbers saved in memory. There was also the number for Harry's mobile. Looking down the long steps in front of her, Ruth pulled the mobile out of her bag, and pressed Harry's number.

* * *

Harry was not having a good day. Truth was, he couldn't rightly remember the last time he'd had a good day. He knew he'd been belligerent to everyone, growling his way across the Grid, and he'd even been short with poor Scarlet the night before. He didn't deserve to be found in polite company, and he knew it. But Harry couldn't seem to stop.

He sat in his office with the lights low, the way he liked them when he needed to think. He had a file open in front of him, but it was only for show. Harry was trying to remember when his equilibrium had been so set on its ear. Aside from the obvious answer of "the day Ruth Evershed walked into the meeting room six years ago," Harry was thinking back to the time before his suspicion of Connie, and before his meetings with Bernard Qualtrough. In retrospect, it seemed peaceful and tranquil then, although he was certain that at the time, it hadn't seemed so at all.

But most of all, Harry was having regrets. He'd said a terrible, inexcusable thing in a meeting this morning. They 'd been talking about that bloody Bibi Saparova again, how she needed protection, and he'd lost his patience and intimated that Bibi was expendable because she wasn't a British citizen.

The moment it had left his lips Harry had known it was a mistake, but then, he was damned if he would take it back. Harry had then looked over at Jo, and she was so shocked that she didn't even have an argument to give him. Just a blank stare, and his name, "Harry?" in a question, as if she had to be certain he was still the same person.

Harry acknowledged that the statement did show a certain lack of humanity, but when he'd said it, it had seemed to make perfect sense. He'd felt he had enough British people to protect, without losing half of his officers to the protection of one foreign citizen who refused to follow orders meant to save her life. Harry closed his eyes. No, it still didn't sound very good.

From the corner of his desk, his mobile rang. He usually looked at the screen, but he wasn't doing anything the "usual" way, so he simply picked it up, and said, "Pearce."

There was just the briefest of pauses, and then he heard, "Harry?"

_Ruth. Ruth's voice_. Suddenly, Harry was transported in his mind to late nights with the phone to his ear, on the Grid, at his house, at Adam's flat, on the train. This was his phone with Ruth on the other end, the cherished connection with her, and he felt a wave of memory pass through him, bringing with it the peace that was missing just seconds ago.

"Ruth? Yes, it's me. Is everything alright?" He'd been taken by such surprise that he hadn't even had time to get nervous.

"Yes. I'm fine." She sounded as if she was outdoors. "I was wondering if you had some time. To meet me."

"Meet you? Yes. Yes, I could do that. When?"

"Now, if you can. I'm walking toward the Globe Theatre. I should be there in ten minutes or so? Do you have the time to spare?" She sounded so different from the last time he'd talked to her, two days ago on the bridge. Now there was a slightly forced cheeriness in her tone, not from happiness, _per se_, but as if she truly wanted him to meet her, and she didn't want to put him off by any perceived lack of enthusiasm.

Harry felt himself smiling. He held the phone close on his ear, as if he were holding her. "Yes, Ruth. I have the time." And Harry knew that was the truest statement he'd made all day. "I'll see you in ten minutes."

Ruth said goodbye, and so did he. For a moment, he wondered if he'd dreamt it, but then he stood quickly and went out to Ros. "I have a meeting. Don't know how long. Call me if you need me."

Ros looked after him, with her peculiar mix of frown and smile. She thought he actually looked happy. Ros allowed her gaze to float over to Jo, who sat at her desk watching Harry as well. Jo's look was much easier to read. It was a wide smile, and when her eyes met Ros', there was an unmistakeable twinkle in them.

* * *

Harry was the first to arrive at the railing, and he waited, trying to calm his nerves. Really , he knew she could be planning to tell him anything. Perhaps it was goodbye, because she'd decided to go back to Cyprus, or somewhere else. Perhaps she did want him to help her find a job, after all. Harry managed, in those few minutes, to run through nearly every plausible scenario.

Then he saw a movement to his left, and there she was. He turned his head, and Ruth was walking toward him with her hands in the pockets of her coat, just as she had walked away from him two days ago. Her eyes were down, and Harry had to turn back toward the water, to try to get his heart in check. Ruth still seemed more beautiful each time he saw her.

Harry put his hands on the railing, and then into his pockets, nervously. He was grateful to see that she seemed slightly nervous as well. This meeting was at her request, so Harry stayed silent. Finally, Ruth looked up, and said, "Er ... we need to talk."

How those words soothed Harry. _We need to talk_. It was the shared aspect, the _we_, that was such a comfort. Her face was soft and open, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. And best of all, her eyes met his. She didn't look away, or avoid him.

He couldn't keep from smiling himself. "I'm glad you said that." His nervousness dissolved, and he relaxed.

Ruth was looking down, and her voice was soft. "I'm sorry." She looked up at him, and Harry was so overcome by what she was saying that he could no longer look in her eyes. He leant forward on the railing and worked toward maintaining his composure, while she continued, "I blamed you for what happened. It wasn't fair."

She kept her eyes down, and Harry was able to turn. "And I'm sorry too, Ruth." He waited until she looked up at him. "I'm sorry for everything, really. Truly sorry."

Neither of them needed to be reminded of what was contained in that word: _everything_. Now they looked at each other, and both were remembering the innocence of two people holding each other for the first time, thinking that keeping a secret would be their greatest challenge. If they had known then what lay ahead, would they have started it? Neither knew the answer, but, in spite all that had happened in the last two years, Harry and Ruth stood together now. They were open to each other, talking, and still in love.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry, what happened to George. It happened too fast, no one could have prevented it. I've thought about this for hours today, putting myself in your place. You knew that if you told Mani where it was, he would have killed all of us. The only thing we had in our favour was time. You even said it." Ruth waited, and searched Harry's eyes to be sure he understood. "It was a horrible thing to have happened, and I'm still dealing with that. But it wasn't your fault."

Harry felt her words wash over him with a sense of descending peace. He found himself unable to respond, so he simply listened.

Ruth looked away toward the water, remembering. "And it was wrong of me to say that you would have let Nico die. I've been thinking about how you let Mani count to ten, and how you waited until the very last second before you stopped him. How you kicked the laptop so that he had to find another. It was all about time, giving Ros and Lucas the time they needed to get to us, wasn't it?"

She turned back to him, her eyes moist. "I was only thinking of myself, of how it was affecting me. You had to think of so many others."

Harry didn't know what to say. He wanted to take two steps and encircle her in his arms, but he gripped the railing and kept his distance. Exhaling, he said the only thing he felt he could. "Thank you, Ruth. That means a great deal to me."

Now Ruth turned fully toward him, and Harry had the feeling she was choosing her words very carefully. "But if you'd had the chance to save George, you would have. If you have a chance to save just one person who is being attacked, or persecuted, you would always do that, wouldn't you?"

A small frown started between Harry's brows at the same time the corners of his mouth moved just a fraction upwards. His reaction was a blend of the fact that he was seeing Ruth as he'd always known her, as the analyst, her logic flawless – but he was also feeling the familiar amusement that came over him when she stood up to him as no one else did, tried to move him off an immovable position when no one else dared. She was fearless in the face of his stubbornness, and he found it simultaneously compelling and adorable.

She was still looking at him, her head tilted and her eyes slightly narrowed, when it came to him. Jo and Ruth had spent a lot of time together of late. He'd told Jo not to see her again, but Jo must have disobeyed him and had asked Ruth to convince him to protect Bibi Saparova.

Ruth's apology, and the way she was looking at him now, opened up Harry's heart, and the rage began to move out of it. He felt he could breathe freely again, and he did. And as he exhaled, he realised that with his heart disengaged, he'd been unable to determine the right thing to do about Bibi. It seemed clearer now, and when he looked back at Ruth this time, it was with a genuine smile.

"Thank you, Ruth. I'll certainly keep that in mind." Raising his eyebrows, Harry asked her, "Was that what you wanted to say? Was there anything else?"

Ruth felt a sense of easiness between them, and smiled back at Harry. It wasn't as it had been, but it was certainly a start. "No, just that. Oh, and thank you for the clothes from Paris." She smiled, and added, "It was like Christmas all over again."

For a moment they simply looked at each other, and there was a simplicity, a warmth that passed between them that was only possible between two people who had known each other in every way. It was the first truly intimate look they'd allowed each other since they'd kissed goodbye in Dover. Both realised what it was, and simultaneously, they turned away, embarrassed.

Ruth started walking backwards, her hand on the rail. "Thanks for meeting me, Harry."

"Thanks for what you said, Ruth." Harry watched her turn around and walk away. He waited until she was far enough away that she couldn't see, and he turned and leant on the rail overlooking the water. There was a smile on his face that he wasn't able to control. He imagined he looked a proper idiot, but he couldn't even bring himself to care. His Ruth was home.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-THREE**

**

* * *

**

Harry sat down and thought for a moment before he switched on the recorder. He was in his study, sitting in the same chair he'd been in when CO19 had come crashing through his windows. Apart from the faint odour of new paint and the occasional sparkle of a bit of errant glass that had escaped the eyes of the cleaners, it looked to Harry as if it had never happened.

That is, except for the feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the fact that he could still hear the music in his head. He thought he always would hear it as he sat in this chair now. The music was like a friend, someone who had stayed steadfastly with him through a terrible ordeal, and Harry found that he welcomed the warmth of the slaves' voices as they rose and fell in his memory.

He took another sip from his glass and smiled. Not only the music, but Ruth had stayed with him through those days as well. Reaching down, Harry pushed the button for the recorder.

_My dearest Ruth,_

_You're here in London, just miles away. It seems like a miracle, as if all the hours I've spent thinking of you and wishing you were close to me have finally managed to conjure you into existence. I've said that, or something very like it, into this recorder already in the last few days, but it feels different tonight, so I needed to say it again._

_It's different, because tonight, I feel as if we're taking slow steps toward being friends again. I fear I don't have the words to describe how that makes me feel, but I'll do my best. I wish I could capture this feeling in a bottle so that I could open it now and then when I'm low. You've been here for six days now, and although the first day was one I initially struggled to forget, I've realised I'm not willing to give up that moment when I looked into your eyes and saw that you still cared for me. I find it's worth it to relive the pain of that day, of what we went through together, because it's a memory that contains you._

_The contradiction is that I saw the love first, but only now do I feel the hope. It's because you smiled at me today, and for just the briefest of moments, we shared a memory of who we'd been together. That moment exploded into thousands of moments as you walked backwards away from me. We both felt it, my Ruth, and I saw your smile threatening to break through to a grin, as mine finally did when you were far enough away for me to give it freedom. I could almost see the thread between us spinning stronger, its filaments shining in the afternoon sun there by the River. _

_I shake my head and laugh at what I just said. You'd think I imagine myself a poet, with all this talk of "shining filaments"! Christ, what you do to me! It never ceases to amaze me._

_And now, where do we go? You sound as if you're considering staying in London. I can hardly say those words without a jump in my heart. First, I thought I'd never see you again, and then I thought you'd married and found a new life. But things weren't what they seemed, and today, you graced me with a forgiveness I hadn't believed was within a reasonable range of hope. I'll admit my head is spinning a bit, but this feeling is so much better than any from the last year. _

_When I ask the question of myself: What should I do? The answer comes back: Nothing. I'll be patient, I'll wait, and I'll love you. You need time to heal. I find I'm grateful just to know that you're here, close by. I'll do whatever you ask of me. I hope I can be a part of your life, but that's up to you now, my Ruth._

_And I remain, as always,_

_Your loving Harry_

Harry turned off the recorder, and set it on the table next to him. He looked at the clock and saw that it was early, not yet eight in the evening. He'd had an idea brewing in his head for some time, and now that he'd finished his letter to Ruth and was feeling completely relaxed, he leant back in his chair and thought it through.

After taking the last swallow of his drink, Harry picked up his mobile and pressed in one number. A very familiar voice answered on the other end, and Harry said, "Malcolm. This isn't too late, is it?"

Harry could hear Malcolm's slight sense of outrage through the phone. "I'm _retired_, Harry. I'm not _dead_. It's what? Half past seven?" Although he was pretending to be in a slight huff, the pleasure at hearing from Harry was evident in Malcolm's voice.

Harry smiled. Nothing had changed, and he was very glad of it. He said, wryly, "Well, I wouldn't know about what hours you keep, not being retired myself." He paused for a moment, and then said, "I have an idea that I think you'll dislike, but I'm going to ask you to indulge me. Will you do that?"

Malcolm smiled now, too. "Ah, you having an idea I'll dislike. That's nothing new, now is it?"

Harry laughed, and said, "I want to give you a farewell. A going-away party, at The George. Just a small group of us from the Grid. Nothing formal. It's just that we never got a proper goodbye." Surprised that Malcolm hadn't cut him off yet, Harry continued. "We'll drink too much and tell lies about you. What do you say?"

Malcolm didn't answer right away, primarily due to the fact that he was feeling slightly overwhelmed by the idea. Never one to be the centre of attention, Malcolm tended to shy away from these sorts of affairs. But after nearly a week, and what was now feeling like an abrupt departure from MI5, the idea of seeing everyone again was strangely comforting.

Harry misunderstood his silence, and said quickly, "I told you that you would dislike the idea, but just give it some thought, will you? It would mean so much to all of us ... "

Malcolm answered before Harry finished, "Yes."

"Oh." Harry was slightly taken aback by Malcolm's unexpected agreement. "Oh, good, then. Say Saturday? Around six? We won't require speeches, perhaps just a hearty handshake and a 'job well done?'"

Malcolm said, quietly, "Actually, I may want to say a few words, if that's alright."

Harry smiled again. Malcolm was known for his speeches, usually chock-full of obscure literary references but also given with a sincerity and vague self-consciousness that was endearing. "That would be very good, Malcolm. Yes ... I look forward to it." Harry was pleasantly surprised. He'd hoped that Malcolm would be amenable to the idea of a gathering, but hadn't thought he would acquiesce quite this easily. "You sound well. Retirement is agreeing with you?"

"Hard to know as yet, but Mum seems pleased. She's had me round for tea three times already." Harry could hear the familiar dry humour in his friend's voice. "I'll have to put a stop to that before it goes any further. This will take care of Saturday, at the very least."

Remembering their last conversation, Malcolm said, with gratitude, "But I've rested. Thank you for making it easy for me, Harry. That was much appreciated. If you'd tried to talk me out of it, I might've given in, and I didn't want to."

"You're welcome." Something popped into Harry's mind, and he wondered whether he should ask. He decided he would. "Will you go to look for Sarah, Malcolm? Is it finally time?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone, as Malcolm said, ""Well ... I _do_ know where to find her. I suppose now it's simply a matter of nerve. I find myself wondering if I've waited too long."

"For Sarah? Or for yourself?"

Malcolm exhaled. "Both."

With the memory of Ruth's soft smile clearly before him, Harry said, "Sometimes you simply have to leap without knowing where you'll land. You'll never know unless you try, Malcolm."

Malcolm was quiet for a moment, and then, as if he was sharing the vision in Harry's head, he asked, "How is Ruth?"

Harry kept his tone light. "Better, I think. She seems to be coming to grips with ... with what happened."

Malcolm said simply, "You might invite her." Then, before Harry had a chance to comment, Malcolm said, "I'll see you Saturday, Harry."

"Yes, Saturday. Goodbye, Malcolm."

"Goodbye, Harry."

Harry closed his mobile and returned it to the table. He stood and poured another measure of scotch into his glass, and sat back down in the chair. The last few days had been very busy, but now Harry realised how much he'd missed his friend's quiet wisdom and counsel. And Harry had to admit that on some level, Malcolm's retirement moved him inches closer to his own.

"_You might invite her." Yes, I think I might._ Opening his mobile again, he searched through his address book until he found the name he was looking for – Ruth's. He wouldn't call her tonight, but now he had a reason to call her tomorrow, and that thought sent a wave of anticipation through him.

She was, after all, a good friend of Malcolm's, and she belonged there, if she wanted to be. The exquisite normalcy of raising a glass at the pub with Ruth again, of surreptitiously watching her from across the room as he had done so many times, warmed Harry. Even more than the scotch he sipped, slowly - until he stood to go downstairs and put out the girls' dinner.

* * *

Ruth woke early, with a sense of purpose. She was in an organising mood, and had determined that she would begin to plan the rest of her life, whatever that entailed. After fixing a cup of tea and toast with marmalade, she started with the first thing on her list.

When Ruth had gone through the boxes of clothes from Paris, there had been one box that she'd opened and then quickly closed again. The first thing she'd seen in it was "Blue: The History of a Colour" right at the top. Without looking at anything else, Ruth had snapped the flaps of the box shut and had pushed it into the closet at the safe house. Although she'd been simultaneously hoping and dreading to find her ring and necklace, Ruth hadn't been prepared to wander through those particular memories then. But now, with the picture firmly in her head of Harry standing at the rail overlooking the Thames, Ruth felt she'd gained the strength to look in the box she'd hidden away.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bedroom, Ruth opened the flaps again, and there was the book, extravagant in its size and richness. With a deep breath, she opened the front cover and fanned the first few pages, hoping she would find what had been there since the day the book had first been delivered. And there it was. Harry's note.

"_To my exceptionally beautiful wife, from your exceedingly loving husband. I wish so much that I could be with you tonight, for so many reasons. I will call you at one minute before midnight so that I will have spent all of your birthday with you. Je t'aime. H._"

And with the suddenness of a speeding train, Ruth's eyes filled, and she began to cry. Not from sadness, but more from the feeling of truth and "rightness" those words brought forth in her. "Wife," "husband," "Je t'aime." For over a year, Ruth had tried to push away her sense of what those words meant, but in reading this one simple note, she felt them profoundly. _I am Harry's wife, he is my husband, and I love him. _Whether they would ever manage to find that place again was still an unknown, but as Ruth's tears fell into tiny starbursts on the cardboard of the box, she knew she couldn't deny the intensity of what she was feeling.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, Ruth put the book down gently on the floor next to her, and returned her attention to the box. It held paperback books, and the few other possessions she'd had in her small flat in Paris, but the ring and the necklace weren't there. On some level, she'd known they wouldn't be. Either Harry hadn't found them at the flat, or he'd decided to hold them safe with him. Ruth allowed herself a sad smile. Considering her mood toward Harry of late, he probably thought she would throw them back in his face. _Smart man. I just might have_.

Ruth began to pull the books out of the box, looking at each one. Some were in French, and some in English. The small "je t'aime" card that Harry had first left for her was tucked between the pages of _Abbaye de Northanger_ as if it were a bookmark. She opened the page, and found it was marking a section in Bath, and Ruth wondered if she had put the card there, or if Harry had.

Ruth closed her eyes again and sighed. Harry had always loved her. She knew that now, and she wondered why she'd ever doubted it. But, as she closed the book, Ruth reminded herself that love wasn't always enough.

Up until yesterday afternoon, it hadn't seemed to matter what Harry was saying or where they were, Ruth hadn't managed to free them from that warehouse, and from what had happened there. She'd looked at Harry's face when he'd come to visit her in the safe house, and she'd only been able to see him as he'd looked sitting across from her, his hands bound, his face drawn, distraught, beaten, tired. When they were on the bridge, she hadn't really heard him clearly - she'd been remembering his coldness as he'd challenged Mani.

But standing at the river, it had been better. For a time, she'd seen Harry as he'd looked when he'd first asked her to dinner, as he'd been in the car on the way to Bath, as he'd acted at the lunch with Tom and Christine when he'd asked her to marry him. As they'd talked by the railing yesterday, she'd seen that he was nervous, for the same reason she was. Because it mattered.

Ruth took the last items out of the box. They were a vintage mother-of-pearl hairbrush and comb set that Adam had missed when he'd quickly gathered up her things from the Paris flat. She'd bought them from a small antiques shop that she'd passed every day on her way to _l'Alcove_. They'd reminded her of a set her mother had, and they'd made her feel at home.

Ruth stood and walked toward the bathroom to put them there, and she realised that she was unpacking, as if the safe house was where she lived. It suddenly occurred to her that she needed a home, a place to call her own. Now that she was back in London, she'd been thinking about Fidget and Phoebe, and she longed to see them. And she remembered her London house, the one that Harry had sold in order to send her the money.

Ruth stood in the middle of the hallway, working it all through. If she were to buy a new place to live, first she would need to transfer the money from the Polis Bank to London. But until her name was cleared, it wouldn't be allowed. The dominos began to line up, and they were all dependent upon Ruth Evershed being not only alive, but cleared of the charges against her. And after all that had happened in the last two years, taking on another identity felt out of the question.

Walking to the lounge, Ruth went to the window to look out. She still carried the brush and comb in her hands, and she held them up to the light to see the rainbow of colours that shone from the surface. She found the place where the blue was brightest, and she smiled. _Mother-of-pearl blue_. Harry had offered to help her, to "sort something out," he had said, about her status in Britain.

When he'd presented the idea on the bridge, she'd been too angry to accept, but now she was able to see the sense of it. Ruth had given up her life in London for Harry, and for MI5. It was only fair that they should be the ones to give her life back to her. And now, all the things he had tried to say to her made sense. If she were going to stay here, she needed her name, a place to live, and a job. Harry had wanted to help her. It was all he was trying to do, really.

Absent-mindedly, Ruth ran the brush through her hair as she used to do whilst looking out at the park on the Rue du Banquier. She tried to imagine herself living in London again, being Ruth Evershed, and going to work. Suddenly, she stopped the movement of the brush and let her hand fall to her side. Ruth realised that the only place she really wanted to work was the Grid, and this was entirely surprising.

Ruth felt a level of excitement growing in her. An excitement for the work, for the pure joy of analysing. For making a difference again. Her time on Cyprus was beginning to feel like a dream from which she was awakening, although she still deeply mourned George's death, and her heart ached for Nico and Christina.

But that was her past now, and even if she could regain it, she didn't think she would. Of course she would give George his life back if she had the power, but Ruth knew now that she could never have stayed there with him. This was where she belonged. In London. At MI5. And with Harry, no matter what their relationship turned out to be. They had, after all, started out as friends, it wasn't impossible that they could be friends again.

For a moment, Ruth let the thought sink in. She would need to live with it for a day or two to determine if it was what she really wanted, but somehow Ruth felt that it was. She would wait to talk to Harry until she was certain, but then she would ask him to repeat his offer of help.

* * *

Harry sat back in his office chair and looked out the window to the Grid. Nothing on this day had gone as planned, and Harry wondered why he ever expected that it would.

His talk with Ruth by the river had helped him understand that Bibi Saparova needed protection, but in the end, they'd lost Bibi anyway, at her own hands. With Jo looking on in horror, Bibi had turned the gun on herself just after shooting Urazov. And after the murder of their Trade and Industry Secretary, the Tazbeks refused to go through with the deal for their gas. As a consequence, the Home Secretary had been forced to work instead with the Russians and the Americans.

But the lights were still on. The rolling power cuts had been halted, and London was peacefully blazing away, its inhabitants largely unaware of how close they'd come to the imminent cold and darkness. As he sat now in his office, Harry knew that a deal was being brokered with the Russians, assisted by Samuel Walker, the Director of the CIA's London branch.

As he looked out at the Grid, Harry could see Lucas and Ros chatting as they wrote their reports. Jo had her hand on Tariq's shoulder, speaking softly to him. Tariq had been in the hotel corridor when the shootings occurred, and he'd had a dreadful lesson in how quickly death could occur, and how messy it could be. Harry had seen him walk back onto the Grid with glassy eyes, and was glad that Jo had somewhat taken him under her wing.

Of course, Jo was also dealing with her own feelings about Bibi's death. Harry had planned to have a talk with her about disobeying his orders, but he would wait until tomorrow. As always, Harry found he heard Ruth's voice in his head – and this time she was saying that people needed time to grieve. Harry would give Jo a day to grieve in peace.

All through the day, Harry had wanted to phone Ruth to invite her to Malcolm's party on Saturday. He'd managed to get a quick call into The George to reserve their back room, and had told Ros to spread the word to the Grid, but he hadn't wanted to rush a conversation with Ruth. Now he knew that his briefing with the Home Secretary wouldn't be until after the negotiations were completed, probably late tomorrow, and presently, none of his team seemed to need advice or counsel. Harry opened his mobile and leant back in his chair.

He paused, rubbed his forehead, and smiled. _I'm nervous as a cat._ He knew he could face down a roomful of powerful people with less worry. He remembered this feeling from school, and thought, _Thank God I'd no idea then that I was still going to be so jumpy at this ripe old age. __Bloody hell_, he finally said to himself, and simply pushed the number.

Ruth picked up on the second ring. "Harry." She sounded surprised, but he thought pleasantly so, and that gave him courage. She also sounded slightly out of breath.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, no, just came in from a walk to the shops to get a few things." Ruth struggled to hold the phone to her ear whilst putting down her shopping bags. "Tea, eggs, bread ..." Her voice trailed off, as if she felt slightly ridiculous enumerating her purchases to him.

He filled the space quickly. "I'm calling to ask if you're free on Saturday." As soon as the words left Harry's mouth, he wanted to pull them back. Instead, he hastily clarified, "For Malcolm. We're throwing a party for Malcolm. You know he's retired?"

"Yes, Jo told me. I was going to call him, perhaps meet him for coffee somewhere." Ruth finally managed to extricate herself from the strap of her purse, and she sat down on the sofa. "How's he doing?"

Harry smiled, remembering. "I spoke with him last evening. I worried I might have called him too late, and he said, 'Harry, I'm _retired_, I'm not _dead_.'" Harry's spot-on imitation of Malcolm made Ruth suddenly laugh, and Harry closed his eyes, falling into the exquisite sound of it.

"Well, it certainly sounds like the same old Malcolm," Ruth said. "And he's agreed to a party in his honour? That's rather surprising, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, but I think he's missed us..." Harry had become so comfortable with this conversation that he'd let down his guard, and the short silence that followed his heartfelt expression of the concept of "missing someone" was enough to tell him that he needed to pull back. He sat up a little straighter in his chair just to strengthen the point. "And he'll even be gracing us with a speech, I believe."

Laughing lightly again, Ruth said, "Ah, that's always something to look forward to." Her affection for Malcolm was evident in her voice, and the softness there filled Harry's heart. He and Ruth had fallen so quickly into the ease of who they naturally were together, that they seemed, in the last few moments, to have forgotten the last year.

"It's on Saturday at six, at The George..." and suddenly Harry wished he had chosen any other place. The name hung between them and changed everything. They both felt it, and Harry said, "Oh, Ruth, I'm so sorry ..."

Ruth took a deep breath, but her voice had lost its lilt, and now sounded slightly clipped. "Don't be silly, Harry. It's not as if you can change the names of things." Harry waited to see where she would take the conversation, and finally Ruth said, vaguely, "On Cyprus, I'd be in mourning, and I suppose there wouldn't be the question of going to a party."

Ruth paused for a moment, and then continued, measuring her words slowly. "I'll have to think about it, but thanks for letting me know. And if I don't come, I'll get in touch with Malcolm on my own."

"I understand, Ruth. I wanted you to know that you were welcome," Harry said softly. And now that he was talking with her, Harry did understand, completely. It was still very soon for her to put herself into the centre of a group of people she'd let go of long ago, even if it was for Malcolm's sake. Not to mention whatever process of grieving she was going through.

"I appreciate that, Harry." Ruth's words sounded genuine.

This felt like a proper end to the conversation, and Harry was about to start his goodbye, when Ruth suddenly said, "I was sorry to hear about Bibi Saparova on the news. Jo must be very sad." Ruth understood that Jo had been told not to contact her anymore, so she added, "Could you tell her she's in my thoughts?"

Harry sighed. Another bad decision made in the heat of the moment, and one that needed to be reversed. So first, he would reprimand Jo for going behind his back, but then he would free her to see Ruth again. There was clearly a connection between them, and Ruth needed friends. Who was he to deny her that?

"Yes, I'll tell her. She is very sad. It wasn't supposed to happen that way."

There was a resignation in Ruth's voice that reminded Harry of his own. "It doesn't always go to plan, does it?" Ruth forced a slightly lighter tone, and said, "Jo's a very good officer, Harry. The service could use more like her."

"I know," Harry said, and then continued with a wry tone, "If only her boss would listen to her a bit more."

Ruth smiled, and said kindly, "Her boss has a lot on his mind."

Harry let the absolution wash over him, and answered softly, "Thank you, Ruth."

"I'll try to make it on Saturday. Thanks for letting me know."

"We'll hope to see you, but we'll understand if we don't. Bye, Ruth."

"Bye, Harry."

Harry pushed the button on his mobile and sat back. Another conversation with Ruth where he'd brought up none of the things that he'd thought were weighing on his mind. Not the house, not the girls, and not the love that was so clearly still between them.

And it didn't matter. In a three-minute conversation they'd run through the gamut of thoughts and emotions that had always been the hallmark of their relationship. They were reconnecting with each other. Harry thought that perhaps the next time they talked, he would feel he could bring up the things he'd wanted to say on the bridge the other day.

As Harry had often told Ruth, he was a very patient man. After a year apart, he felt again that he and Ruth had time.

* * *

Ruth put down her mobile and stood to put the food away. She realised she hadn't even taken off her coat, and as she went to the hall closet and hung it up, she could still hear the warmth of Harry's voice in her ear. She had the strange feeling of having been transported back in time. There had been moments of unavoidable awkwardness, but on the whole, her conversation with Harry was one they might have had on the Grid three years ago. It had the same undertones of feeling, the same depth of meaning beneath the everyday exchange, that had been the case so often before their secret.

How many times in the last year had Ruth bargained, and thought _What if?_ What if she'd never gone to his house that night, what if they'd stayed as they were, in love, but not acting on it? Would she have been allowed by a kind universe to avoid Maudsley, Mace and exile? And was this Ruth's second chance at that alternate ending? She felt that all she would have to do was to reach her hand out to Harry, to say "I love you" again, and he would take it. And she would be right back on the carousel. But what if she never did that? What if they allowed themselves to hold the love they felt in check, as they had for so many years? What if, knowing now in painful detail how their love would turn out, they chose to be just friends instead?

Ruth put the last of the things in the fridge, and went to sit down. Her thoughts were swirling, and she wished, as she had many times in the last few days, that she had her laptop from Cyprus with her, so that she could type out her feelings and put them in order. And thinking of that led her mind to the letters, the ones she had stored safely back on the _l'Alcove_ server after reading them just a couple of weeks ago in the office at the mountain house.

Looking blankly into the lounge of the safe house, Ruth could still imagine George standing at the doorway that night, when, after finding her in the dark, his impatience resonating clearly in his voice, he'd said, "Why do you insist upon doing that to your eyes?" Ruth brought herself back to the present, and breathed deeply, trying to reconcile the fact that George was gone now, that life was over, and yet another life was beginning.

Ruth suddenly had a strong desire to see her letters to Harry, and his to her. She needed to know if it would be possible for her to deny the expression of her love for him, and, ever the fine analyst, Ruth felt that one way to find out was to force herself to feel again the pull of "your much-appreciated correspondence." She knew the letters should still be there, safely waiting on the server for her to retrieve them.

Ruth stood, walked to her purse, and looked inside her wallet. She was nearing the end of the cash she'd tucked into the carry-all on Cyprus, but she had enough to get her through until she found the right moment to speak with Harry about transferring her account from Polis.

Ruth got her coat again from the closet, and walked to the street. She'd seen an internet cafe on her way to buy groceries, and she went directly there, booked a computer, and sat down at one in the corner, near the printer. She worked her way through the familiar path, her anticipation growing with each click, until finally she was looking at the folder named "Scarlet."

She was anxious to see the letters, but first she wanted to send a short note to Isabelle. Ruth had been thinking quite a lot of her wise friend, and was looking forward to the day she would be able to board the Eurostar to visit her. So before she opened the folder, Ruth typed out a short note.

_My dear friend,_

_I want you to know that I'm safe, and I'm home. You're very much in my thoughts, and as soon as it's possible, I'll come to see you. I have much to tell you. I hope this finds you well and happy._

_Much love, _

_Sophie_

Ruth moved the message into the Drafts folder, and breathed deeply before clicking twice on the "Scarlet" folder. It opened, and there they were, all of them. Ruth found that her heart was pounding, and she wondered if she had the control to read them now, here in a room full of people, but she found she couldn't wait. Ruth clicked on Harry's first letter to her, hoping she was strong enough.

"_Dear Mlle. Persan, My good friend Mr Wingate has done me the great favour of giving me your email address" ... "a recent loss has opened me up to thoughts and feelings that seem to want expression" ... "It is very good indeed to know that another shares my feelings" ... "And as for your being a mule? Please remember it's only an expression. Perhaps the one who called you that was a bit fixated at the time. Faithfully yours, Mr William Arden."_

Ruth stifled a laugh, and felt her heart expanding. The love she'd felt for Harry when she'd first read those words flowed into her like a wave, pure and clean. It was utterly separate from George, and Cyprus, and everything that had happened since, and Ruth allowed herself to feel it. _No tears_, she thought. _I can do this_. She clicked quickly on her letter back to Harry.

"_Dear Mr Arden, Perhaps we can offer each other some comfort through our separate experiences" ... "I have recently had my own perfect experience of the romantic sort in Bath" ... "I was happier and more myself in those three days than I have been in my entire life ..."_

Ruth stopped reading, and moved her gaze down to the keyboard. It blurred and spun before her eyes, as she worked hard to turn back the current of tears that were threatening. _Okay, I can't do this_, she thought, and she moved the cuff of her blouse up to the corners of her eyes to clear them. Once she was under control, Ruth moved the cursor up to the small printer icon at the top of the screen.

One by one, she printed them all. Then she took them from the printer, and returned to the privacy of the safe house.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-FOUR**

**

* * *

**

_Another one dead_, Jo thought.

Someone needed to retrieve Bibi's Saparova's possessions from the flat at the estate, and Jo volunteered. She'd also been the one to gather up George's things at the safe house, and the comparison wasn't lost on her. It seemed people kept dying, no matter what anyone did to try to stop it. Zaf, Adam, Ben, Connie, George, and now Bibi. Jo sighed deeply as she looked around her. She felt inexpressibly tired. What was it all for, really?

As she collected Bibi's papers and books and placed them in a pile, Jo tried to remember herself before MI5, and she recalled the first time she'd seen Adam. He'd come to her flat to read the gas meter, and once she'd understood what it was he really did, it had sounded exciting. She'd loved his passion, his drive, and the way his job seemed to pull him toward something greater than himself. It was what she'd longed for then.

And after spending those terrible days in captivity with the Redbacks, those days she could hardly bear to remember and still draw breath, Adam had arrived, and had been Jo's only salvation. She'd told him that she'd had "poise and gravitas" when he'd first met her, and it was true. She'd wanted to make a difference, and in small ways, she felt she had. But not in the ways she'd dreamed, and now, she had to admit that the price had simply been too high.

Jo sat down on the sofa for a moment, thinking, and her mind drifted to Zaf. She'd never been able to separate her experience of the Redbacks from what she'd imagined his experience had been. When she'd been in the cell with Adam and they'd heard the tapes of someone screaming playing relentlessly, she'd told Adam it was Zaf, but he hadn't believed her. It _was_ Zaf, she'd known it, and she still heard him screaming at night, in the half-waking state of her nightmares.

Jo had seen the photos of his body. She'd offered so casually to Harry to file them that Harry hadn't suspected that she needed to see what they'd done to the man she loved. She'd stood in the Archives and cried for Zaf, and a part of her went with him into that cold, dark place. She'd thought then how long it would be, if ever, before anyone looked at him again. He would rest there until the end of time, or until the records were put into some other form, or perhaps were simply destroyed.

And then she'd gazed blankly at the stacks of files around her, and wondered how many other lives were held there, of people who were loved, or never had a chance to love. And she'd sat on the floor and cried again, until she thought she might never get up.

As she sat now, looking at the stack of Bibi's papers in front of her, Jo knew that something inside her was broken beyond repair. She had a naturally cheery disposition that she showed the world, but inside there seemed to be something growing that she couldn't stop. She'd thought once of taking her handgun and putting it to her head, just as she'd watched Bibi do yesterday. She hadn't done it, in large part, because she'd cleaned up after too many dead bodies, and she couldn't bear to have others given that task with hers.

She'd also thought of simply disappearing, but the basic flaw in that plan was that she would take herself and her own pain with her, and Jo knew that wouldn't solve anything. She could walk into the sea, she could step in front of a car, she could do so many things that would give her the peace that she knew Bibi Saparova was enjoying now. But she hadn't done it.

Most of the time, Jo wished that Adam _had_ snapped her neck that day, like the injured birds she'd told him about. Every day since then had held some kind of terror, some old, some new, and now she was sitting in another empty room that held only the memory of a person who had died. Jo was more weary of it than she could express.

She stood to complete her task, and an envelope caught her eye on the table in front of her. She leant over and picked it up, and on the front, in a clean, steady hand, was written "Jo Portman." She opened it and pulled out the two small sheets of paper, and read.

_Dear Miss Portman, _

_I'm sorry that I couldn't get to know you better. I think in a different world we might have even been friends. But the sorrow in my heart is too great for me to continue now. I wanted you to know, however, that I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. _

_Thank you, _

_Bibi_

Jo didn't think she had any more tears to cry. _But the sorrow in my heart is too great for me to continue now._ Jo understood that feeling well. Before she could read it a second time, her mobile rang. She looked at the screen and answered, "Harry."

"I need to talk to you, Jo. I'm near the estates, may I meet you there?" Harry's voice was clipped, to-the-point.

"Of course. I'll be downstairs in, say ..." She looked at her watch, "Ten minutes?"

"Good. I'll see you then," Harry said, and rang off.

Eight minutes later, Jo had packed up the last of Bibi's meagre possessions into the boxes and called to have them picked up. She went downstairs and found Harry waiting just outside the front door of the building. The fact that he wanted to meet her here, rather than the Grid, told Jo that this was probably more of a personal issue, and she was certain it had to do with Ruth.

That suspicion was proven true in Harry's first question of her. "You went and spoke to Ruth, didn't you?" Harry began walking, indicating that she should fall into step with him. His tone wasn't particularly accusatory – it seemed merely a question.

Jo knew that she'd directly disobeyed an order, but she still felt it had been the right thing to do, so she answered him in the same even tone, "Yes."

"What did you hope to achieve by that?" Harry asked.

Jo knew that Harry was honestly asking a question of her, so she spoke bluntly. "I thought you were wrong for turning a blind eye to Bibi. There are some lines we should not cross." She thought that she might have been a bit too blunt, so she turned to Harry and added, "In my opinion."

Harry paused for a moment, and Jo wasn't sure how he was receiving that criticism. Then he surprised her by agreeing. "You were right. I didn't think it through properly."

Harry's honesty gave Jo courage, and she thought she might not have this chance again, so she simply said what was on her mind. "She should come back to us." Ruth belonged on the Grid, and Jo had seen it in her eyes as they'd sat talking on the steps. It was also clear to Jo that Harry wanted her there, so she turned to him as they walked, "If you talk to her maybe ... "

Harry interrupted her, and Jo realised that this might be the real reason Harry wanted to meet her today, "She's extremely fond of you, Jo. She thinks the service needs more people like you." He stopped walking and looked at her earnestly, "I can try and sort the logistical side of things out with the Home Secretary, but ... if you continue to meet her ... "

His voice trailed off, and Jo filled the space, "I'm happy to try."

Harry's voice changed abruptly, and he said softly, "Good." She could hear the intense gratitude there, and in his eyes she saw firsthand what she'd believed was true. She saw his deep love for Ruth, and in that moment, Jo knew she would do almost anything for the two of them. They belonged together.

His voice was still gentle, but now Jo could hear a lightness in it. "Don't go behind my back again, though, or I'll have you deported to Tazbekstan."

"Understood," Jo said. Now Harry smiled, and she smiled back at him. He turned and walked away. Jo was happy to try to get Ruth back to MI5. She'd felt guilty for so long about the part she'd played with the tracker in Ruth's pocket. And although Jo might not be long for this work, Ruth was meant to be doing it. Jo felt somehow that if she could help to get Ruth to her rightful place on the Grid, it might balance things out.

* * *

After talking with Jo, Harry called Nicholas Blake and asked if it would be possible to meet with him. Harry heard the last of the news report as he walked through the door to the Home Secretary's office.

"_The energy crisis may have eased slightly with reports that an unexpected deal has been agreed with the Russians to provide emergency short-term supplies. Ministers have dismissed opposition claims of chaos at the heart of government. The Prime Minister says he'll get on with running the country and ensuring economic recovery."_

Nicholas Blake clicked off the television and poured them each a drink. "People have every right to be angry," he said, sounding resigned. "We've let too much slide through our fingers."

Harry sat down across from him. "Things will look better in a year's time. And a lot of people who would have died, will now not die." He paused for a moment and lifted his glass. "It's breathtakingly simple sometimes."

Blake was sceptical. "Hmm, it doesn't always feel that way."

Harry drained his glass and set it down on the table. He'd rehearsed a speech thoroughly in the last few days, but now he thought he might just try it off the cuff. He leant back in the chair, put his hand to his forehead, and began. "Home Secretary, I have to talk to you about something that's not simple at all." Blake looked up expectantly, and Harry got right to the point. "Do you remember Ruth Evershed?

Blake did remember. "Yes, of course, very sad. Did you ever determine if she took her own life in the Thames, or was there foul play?"

Harry pursed his lips with just the hint of a smile, and said, evenly, "Actually, it was neither. She's alive."

Blake narrowed his eyes slowly in a look that was very familiar to Harry. It was a look that said clearly, _Do I want to know about this?_

"It's rather a long story," Harry said. Silently, he picked up his glass and put it on Blake's desk next to the bottle of scotch. Blake poured each of them a fresh glass, and sat back in his chair, waiting.

Starting with Maudsley, and ending with Mace, Harry related how Ruth had been involved with the Cotterdam case, and the sacrifice she had made. He carefully left out the details of why Ruth had been at that particular tube station the morning Maudsley died, and he never intimated that Ruth was anything more than a valued officer. But Nicholas Blake was where he was because he had excellent perception, and he could see that there was more to this than met the eye.

The animosity between Harry and Mace was legendary in the Services, especially the events of the day that Oliver's arm had been slashed and Harry had landed behind bars. It had been impossible to cover up completely, and although it had only added to Harry's mystique among his colleagues, in the end, it had seemed a bit too convenient that his Senior Analyst had taken the blame that had first been assigned to Harry.

Harry took another swallow of his drink. "Ruth is back in London, and I want to repay her for her service to this country by returning her life and her name." He looked pointedly at Blake. "We owe her that, Home Secretary." When he saw no reaction, Harry said, more gently, "I'm asking it not only as the Head of Section D, but as a personal favour."

Now Harry was silent, and he sipped the last of his scotch whilst keeping his eyes squarely on Blake's. It was a stand-off of sorts, and both men were fairly sure that they knew what the other was thinking. Blake knew he owed Harry, big time, for recent events. And Harry knew that Blake was wondering what Harry wasn't telling him. But the Cotterdam and Maudsley investigations had been long closed, Oliver Mace had disappeared to parts unknown, and both Harry and Blake knew that this was a thing that was easily accomplished.

The Home Secretary put down his glass and leant forward on his desk. "Will she come back to work for MI5?"

Harry relaxed, knowing that he'd gotten a _Yes_, and now they were simply hashing out the logistics. "I don't know. I'd like that to be a possibility, should she wish it."

Blake allowed Harry a half-smile. "I'll make the necessary arrangements. Is Friday soon enough?" He stood and offered his hand, letting Harry know that the meeting was over.

Harry stood as well, and shook Blake's hand warmly. "Thank you, Home Secretary. I'm very grateful."

"You're welcome, Harry. After all, we have to take care of our own, don't we?"

Harry nodded, but he didn't allow himself a full smile until he had closed the door behind him and was walking the long corridor toward the stairs.

* * *

"Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking..."

There was a collective and affectionate groan from those listening to Malcolm. Everyone present knew of his passion to quote and, indeed, to eulogise. Malcolm gave one of his customary half-smiles and continued.

"Well, I am a background person. I always have been, and I assume I always will be. But in my time here I've tried to help, and to be of service. And as I retire, hopefully to be able to read books by the sea in peace, I can only say that it has been a privilege to serve one's country." Malcolm paused for just a moment, and added, "Along with everything that goes with it, and alongside people who are, I know, very nice people, and, more importantly, very _good_ people."

"Hear, hear!" someone called out, and there was mild laughter, to which Malcolm smiled again.

"Anyway, I joined the Service some time ago. In the first month of the first year of the decade that was the 1990s. That was a significant time ago, of course. And over the years, I have been somewhat constant in my duties. I've been content to be constant, because my duties were important. And I was, if I say so myself, rather good at the duties that I performed." There were smiles all around at this uncharacteristic lack of modesty, but no one disagreed with the assessment.

Malcolm looked at the faces that were turned toward him, and he faltered, unsure of what to say next. But he caught Jo's eye, and she nodded, urging him on. Malcolm gave a slight nod back, and continued, "The, er... the point being, I have been in the same place for a long time, and I've witnessed many arrivals. And many departures."

"The arrivals nearly always filled me with joy. The departures, always with sadness. And I leave you all with a certain gladness for myself, yes, but also with sadness … a great sadness, at leaving those of you for whom I have such fondness."

Malcolm blinked back what may have been a tear, and he wasn't the only one in the room. There were so many missing, and they'd been lost so quickly. Malcolm could picture Adam, Zaf, Danny, Ben, Fiona and even Connie standing amongst those listening. And Colin, always there was Colin. Thinking he'd better wrap up his comments before he became impossibly sentimental, Malcolm said, "However, _tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_."

Everyone looked perplexed, but Harry, standing in the corner, smiled. Malcolm looked at him as he translated for the rest of those assembled. "Times change, and we change with the times." Harry smiled again, knowing, as Malcolm did, that despite MI5's statement of "preserving the status quo," things would always change.

Malcolm continued, "But so long as we remember, even death itself is not a goodbye. For death is no more than a turning over of us ... from time, to eternity." Coming to the climax of his speech, Malcolm said, just a bit more vigorously, "So I have one toast, and one only …" He raised his glass, and said, "Absent friends."

A short silence followed. Not long enough to be embarrassing, but long enough for all those who worked for Section D to pause, momentarily, to reflect on the colleagues and friends they'd lost. Appropriately, it was Lucas, himself away for eight years but now returned, who was the first to lift his glass and say, "To absent friends."

A chorus of voices raised together from around the room. "Absent friends!"

As Malcolm received well-deserved praise for his speech from those nearby, people began talking again. Harry scanned the crowd again for Ruth, but she wasn't there. He drained the glass of champagne, and moved toward the bar, ordering a single malt. He'd so hoped that she would come, and although he'd been talking himself out of it all day, he found he was disappointed that she hadn't.

He reminded himself that he needed to give her time and space, but Malcolm's speech had re-opened the sense of loss in Harry. He was happy for Malcolm, but after more than a week, it was truly sinking in that he would no longer have his old friend on the Grid with him.

Then Harry turned back toward the crowd, and there she was. Standing at the door, half in, and half out of the room. And from the looks of it, ready to fly away any second. Before she could escape, Harry walked quickly to her. "You did come, after all," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the music that had just started.

Ruth had a slightly startled look, and he felt as if he was shouting at her, so Harry angled his head toward the long hallway she'd just walked through. "Are you ready to come in, or would you like to wait a bit?"

She looked gratefully at him, and smiled. "I might like to have one glass of wine before tackling the whole room. Would you mind?"

Before he realised it, Harry had placed his hand on the small of her back and was walking with her to the main area of the pub. They both felt the touch, simultaneously familiar and new. Unlike the noise of the back room, the main bar was relatively peaceful, and Harry found a table that was empty and quiet. He looked at Ruth with raised eyebrows and said, "White or red? Or something stronger?"

She laughed softly, and said, "White is fine, thanks." She didn't say white burgundy, and he didn't ask, but each of them thought of it. He brought her a dry Chardonnay, and set it down next to his scotch on the table before he sat across from her.

"You missed Malcolm's speech," Harry said, smiling.

Ruth frowned slightly. "I couldn't seem to decide ... " She felt herself moving into dangerous territory, so she added lightly, "Can you give me the high points?"

"It was very good, and quite moving, actually. He offered a toast to absent friends." For a moment, Harry and Ruth looked at each other, and it seemed that nothing but questions hung between them. Then Ruth raised her glass slightly, and said, softly, "To absent friends."

Harry touched his glass to hers and repeated, "To absent friends." They both sipped at their drinks, their eyes still on each other.

Ruth broke his gaze first, and looked down at her hands resting on the table. She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I wanted you to know that I was … planning to leave, to go somewhere far away from here… " Ruth paused, and Harry's heart fell. But then she finished the sentence, "But in the last couple of days, I've realised that's not what I want."

Harry didn't trust himself to speak right away, so he simply nodded. Then, managing to keep his voice steady, he said, "So you plan to stay? In London?"

"Yes." She didn't flinch. In fact, Ruth sat a little taller. It was a definite answer. A clear answer. It was the answer he'd wanted so much to hear.

"I'm very glad, Ruth." He smiled at her, and said, "You'll need a place to live, then, won't you?"

Ruth's eyes narrowed, just slightly, and Harry realised she may have thought he meant his house, the house that was to be their house someday. His eyes flew open wide, and he said, quickly, "No, no, I never sold _your_ house. I kept it, thinking that ... I was waiting until the market turned, to send you the extra ..." He was stumbling over his words, and finally, Ruth broke into a smile, and he stopped.

She said, surprised, "You never sold it? But you sent me the money, with Adam ... "

"Yes, I bought the house from you and sent you the money," Harry said, softly. He was remembering those terrible days, and how quickly it all had to be accomplished.

Ruth paused for a moment, and then she said, "Then the house belongs to you. I'll need to pay you for it. But I had to use some of the money you sent, to live." She was calculating now, in her head. "I only used a small portion, but I may have to make payments for the rest ..."

Harry started to say no, that he didn't need it, and she could live in the house and keep her money, but he stopped himself. He knew that Ruth wouldn't stand for that, so, measuring his words carefully, he said, "We can work out a business arrangement, if you'd like. Regular payments, we can even go to a solicitor, if that would make you more comfortable."

He could see that Ruth appreciated that idea. She smiled, and said, "I would like that." Then she said, slowly, "I'll be looking for ... a job." She kept her eyes on Harry's, waiting for his reaction.

Harry decided to leap. "If you want to come back to the Grid, Ruth, I can't think of anyone who would be more valuable to us. But if you want to go to GCHQ, or ..."

Ruth interrupted him, smiling. "There are too many bloody mathematicians at GCHQ, Harry."

Harry exhaled softly. "The Grid it is, then." His heart was so full in his chest he could hardly breathe. Ruth was home, she was staying in London, and she wanted to come back to MI5. He thought he might still be in one of his dreams.

Sipping her wine, Ruth knew without a doubt that this was what she wanted. She knew it now, because it felt right. Only time would tell if too much had happened for her to be with Harry the way they had been, but this decision felt good, and safe. Now there was only one last thing to ask him. "And the girls?"

Pursing his lips, Harry said, "They're yours, Ruth." He tilted his head slightly, "But against my better judgement, I seem to have developed an affection for them. May I visit now and then?"

Now Ruth laughed. "Affection? Fuzz and all?" Harry nodded, looking slightly sheepish, and she said, "If you ever want them to come stay with you, just ask."

"Thank you." Harry felt they had said so much, and he didn't want to stretch this moment any longer than he should, so he got right to the news he had to give her. "I took the liberty of speaking with the Home Secretary, and I received word yesterday that your papers have gone through, Ruth. I'll have them Monday. I can either have them couriered to you, or you can stop by the Grid for them?"

Ruth smiled. "I thought you wanted me to come back to work?"

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise, "What, Monday? So soon?"

Ruth actually looked slightly hurt. "Well, I don't ... have to ... if you'd rather ..."

Before he knew what he was doing, Harry reached out and touched her hand across the table, "No, no, that would be wonderful ..." he pulled his hand back, quickly, and took hold of his glass to cover his embarrassment. "Monday would be very good. We'll try and have some minor excitement for you."

Ruth looked across at Harry and remembered her days in Paris, and how she'd longed to come back to work. Before coming tonight, she'd sat reading and re-reading their Paris letters, spread around her on the floor of the lounge in the safe house. What had been so clear was the fact that they hadn't been able to stop the progression. At first, they'd said no contact, then they allowed just letters, then a phone call, then a meeting. They'd been unable to stay apart. The reason Ruth had taken so long to decide to come to Malcolm's party, was that she feared this might be the first step of another progression. She worried that somehow she was beginning to walk another inevitable, unhappy path.

But now, as she looked into Harry's eyes and saw the love there, Ruth couldn't believe that what lay ahead was unhappiness. She felt held, and whole, and more at home than she'd felt since the day she'd stood at the top of his stairs in his shirt, saying goodbye just hours before Mik Maudsley died. This was where she belonged, and she'd waited so long for it.

Her eyes began to fill as she looked at him, and Harry saw it. He tilted his head slightly, and she said, "It's alright, Harry. I'm fine." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He started to hand it to her, but then he reached up and caught a tear. For a moment, their hands touched at her cheek, and just as they had on the bus, they held them there. They both felt themselves pulled back to another time, and, not wanting to get completely lost, simultaneously, they moved their hands down to the table.

Harry remembered what he had felt after their last conversation, and he said softly, "There's time. We have time." Ruth nodded, and smiled, and an understanding passed between them. They sat for a few moments longer, and Harry didn't protest when Ruth carefully folded his handkerchief and put it in her purse.

Harry finished his drink, and said, "You ready?" Ruth nodded, and Harry stood, leaving a tip on the table. He took her arm gently to help her out of her chair, and they walked in silence down the long hallway. When they reached the doorway, Ruth turned to him and said, "Thanks, Harry. The drink helped."

When they walked into the room together, almost everyone was busy in conversation. But from across the room, Malcolm smiled.

* * *

Finally, it was time for Malcolm to go.

Nearly everyone had left. In fact, aside from the bar staff who were cleaning up, there were only six of them remaining now - Harry, Ros, Lucas, Malcolm, Ruth and Jo.

"Tariq will be excellent, you know," Malcolm was explaining to anyone who would listen, "I had a wonderful talk with him about nanotechnology this evening. He's sharp, he's bright, he's … well ... he's like Colin."

Jo put her hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "We know, Malcolm," she said softly, "we know you wouldn't leave us in hands that weren't as safe as yours."

Malcolm turned to hug Jo. "Now don't you go getting shot," Malcolm said, with a genial, almost paternal air. Jo laughed, and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry, Malcolm … I won't."

Harry listened, and thought back to the promise he'd made to Ruth just before she was exiled - the promise, of course, that he wasn't able to keep. And for a moment, Harry wondered if any promise was possible in a business like this.

Then, to everyone's utter amazement, Ros stepped up and put her arms around Malcolm, and gave him a hug. Malcolm knew that Rosalind Myers didn't hug people, and he reckoned he should be honoured, but it rendered him all but speechless.

"Malcolm," Ros whispered quickly into his ear, "You're a good man, and I'm going to miss you."

Then she pecked his cheek, broke the embrace and, before Malcolm knew it, there was distance between them. Part of him was not entirely sure that it had happened.

Harry and Ruth stood apart, waiting their turns. They watched as Lucas shook hands with Malcolm, and then gave way to sentiment and hugged him. Malcolm was one of the few people that Lucas had always found trustworthy in an unreliable world.

After Lucas moved aside, Ruth walked over and placed her hand on Malcolm's cheek. She kissed the other one, and whispered to him, "Thanks for being such a good friend. To both of us." She pulled away and smiled, wanting him to know that this wasn't nearly the end. "I'll call you next week. I'll buy you a coffee."

Malcolm smiled back at her. "An offer I won't refuse."

As he looked on, Harry remembered the handshake that he and Malcolm had shared on the Grid only a few weeks ago, before Harry made his way to visit London's FSB headquarters. He also remembered what he'd said to him. _Malcolm, I know I can rely on you. Some things change, that never will_. He was now no longer Harry's officer, but he was still his trusted friend, and always would be. Harry walked to where Malcolm stood, and he nodded. "Well, this is it."

"Yes. I suppose it is," Malcolm said.

"I'll ... miss you, you know."

Malcolm said haughtily, "You already do." Then he nodded, and spoke softly: "And I you."

For all the comings and goings, for all the deaths and exiles, in twenty years at MI5 they had remained constant in one another's lives. For all that the others on the Grid had been to them, or even Sarah and Ruth, those who they loved so much - none of them could equal the unbroken longevity of company, friendship and service that Harry and Malcolm had enjoyed.

Now both men were somewhat at a loss for words. Harry felt the emotion rising in his throat, but he told himself the same thing he'd just thought about Ruth. _There will be time_. Time for dinners at Tom and Christine's, time for lunches in town, and time to join Malcolm by the sea with a good book now and then. Harry put out his hand and said, "I'll see you soon?"

"I hope so," Malcolm said quietly.

Harry gave an almost embarrassed smile, and Malcolm, for his part, gave one of his customary half smiles, and nodded his head. It was almost a bow, perhaps indicating the fact that he felt himself in service to this man who, for all his human faults, he would have followed anywhere, if necessary.

Then Malcolm moved off. He walked past Harry, and was gone. Harry didn't watch him go, but instead allowed his gaze to move to Ruth. She let him know that she understood his pain at the loss of his long-time friend and ally on the Grid.

But she reminded him, with her eyes, that what is lost can always be found again.

* * *

_-To "Sir Malcolm": A very warm thank you for the farewell party - it was a true collaboration, and I'm grateful for being allowed to incorporate your beautiful words into my story-_


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-FIVE**

* * *

Ruth looked around the back room of The George, and saw Harry talking intently with Lucas and Ros. She went to get her coat, hoping to slip out quietly. Taking a quick look back, Ruth moved out of the pub and into the fresh air. She told herself that she hadn't wanted to interrupt Harry to say goodbye, but the truth was something completely different.

She'd had four glasses of wine, she was feeling vulnerable, and she didn't entirely trust herself. She was also craving solitude to think, and after this night, Ruth had much to think about. Harry had told her that her papers had come through, which meant that for the first time in two years, Ruth Evershed was officially alive and no longer on the run. The day after tomorrow, she would be back on the Grid, working. And earlier, when she and Harry had shared a drink together, it was in public and amongst colleagues, and they hadn't seemed to give it a second thought. Everything felt different, as if the rule book had been thrown out. Ruth's head was literally, and figuratively, spinning.

She was thrilled about returning to work on the Grid, but Ruth was also frankly a bit nervous. She wondered if the serenity of her time in the bookshop and at the hospital had dulled her "edge." She wondered how she would adjust to the unimaginable absence of Adam, Zaf and Malcolm from the MI5 she'd known. And as she tried to wave down another one of the taxis that flew by, Ruth wondered again how she would adjust to the daily presence of Harry.

As she'd sat across the table from him, sipping her wine, Ruth had realised that there was really no one she'd rather be with. The haunted, pained look he'd worn at the warehouse was utterly gone, and in its place was the intelligent sparkle of his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth, and the warmth of his hand on hers, brief though it had been. And Harry's love had been so clearly written on his face, Ruth had felt herself being drawn inexorably into the past.

She'd felt tempted to simply set aside the ache of the last two years, and to fall into who they'd been together. The part of her that was warmed and loosened by the alcohol had argued that no one really wants to keep feeling pain anyway, and that what was done, was done. Tomorrow was another day. The aphorisms had flowed more easily with each glass of wine, and it seemed that every time she'd looked at Harry, his eyes had gravitated toward her, almost as a result of her gaze. In those split seconds of contact, he'd told her each time, "I know where you are, and I love that you're here."

Toward the end of the evening, Ruth had listened to a rapturous explanation of MI5's new face recognition software from an analyst she'd known on the Grid, and she'd nodded, and smiled. She'd positioned herself in such a way that she could see Harry a short way down the bar, and she was aware of the way he'd laughed and used his hands for emphasis in a story he was telling. She'd looked at his hands, and without warning, Ruth felt her familiar attraction to him nearly overwhelm her. She'd blushed suddenly, and had quickly ordered another glass of wine to cover her embarrassment.

And now, standing at the curb and feeling a bit wobbly, Ruth could only think about getting back to the safe house to try and make sense of things. She found she was wishing that she hadn't had quite so much to drink, but she had to admit that the mild numbness felt decidedly pleasant after the week's raw emotions.

Another cab drove past her outstretched hand, and Ruth muttered, "Bloody hell!"

"Can I give you a lift, Miss?" Harry's voice behind her took her immediately back to the bench of a bus stop, just a short way from Thames House, on a night that had held nothing but promise.

Ruth smiled and, with her back still to him, made the same reply she had on that night. "As long as you're not some weirdo." But then, as she turned around and looked at Harry, Ruth suddenly felt that too much had happened, and the pain started afresh. She thought that the innocence of their love on that night felt too foreign, too unrealistic to joke about.

The frown started between her brows. "Sorry."

Harry's smile transformed into confusion, as he shook his head gently. "Why on earth would you be sorry for saying that?"

"Because ... we're not those two people any more ... " Ruth looked down at her hands, and resolutely pushed aside the emotion that was starting.

Without thinking, Harry reached up and brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. "No," he said softly. "We're two different people." He laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder. And, with the courage that accompanied a number of single malts, and before he could think better of it, Harry said, "But I suspect...I believe... that these two people still love each other."

Ruth's eyes flew up to his, and for a moment, Harry almost wished he hadn't said it. She seemed fragile, as if the word _love_ had started a tiny fracture that might grow into a full-scale fissure and shatter her as she stood before him. But then he saw her take control, and the resolve that he remembered so well came into her eyes.

Harry had to strain to hear her above the traffic on the street, but Ruth said, "Yes, I believe they do, too." She paused for a moment, and then said, softly, "But I need time, Harry. Can you give me time?"

"Yes." But even as he said it, he could no longer hold back. Harry pulled her gently into his arms and cradled her head on his chest. "All the time in the world, my Ruth." In the midst of a busy London Saturday night, with the noise of cars and people walking by, Harry and Ruth held each other in silence. As he felt her fit so naturally against him, Harry realised that not only was Ruth home, but finally, he was as well.

At just that moment, Jo exited The George. From the short distance of the doorway, she looked up and saw Harry envelop Ruth in his arms, and Jo stood under the awning, again the voyeur. From her vantage point, she saw the impossibly tender way Harry's hand stroked Ruth's hair, his chin resting gently on the top of her head, his eyes closed.

Jo hadn't really let go and cried in a long while, in fact, she'd wanted to cry whilst reading Bibi's note, but hadn't been able to find the tears. Now they came, and in her mind also came the thought, _This is a love to live for_. Jo felt a sudden connection with Zaf, and although she didn't know it, Zaf had stood once, just as she was standing, and had watched Harry and Ruth in an embrace much like this one.

It had been on Primrose Hill. Zaf and Adam had seen Harry and Ruth walk into each other's arms, and Zaf had been thinking something very similar. _This is a love to live for_. And just as Zaf had then, Jo turned her eyes away, allowing Ruth and Harry their privacy.

Jo began a slow walk away from them, staying close to the buildings. Wiping away her tears, she allowed herself a hopeful smile as she made her way home.

* * *

Harry convinced Ruth to let him take her back to the safe house, and they made a plan for him to meet her the next day, Sunday, to help her get settled into her old London house. At first, Ruth had protested lightly, saying that they hadn't worked out the financial arrangements yet, but he simply asked her if she was keen on spending another night at the safe house, and she shook her head. Harry told her that he would have the girls waiting there for her.

Walking Ruth to the door, Harry kept replaying the sound of her voice in his ear, firmly saying, _I need time, Harry. _He managed to keep his hands in his pockets as she searched for her key. In the year she'd been gone, it had never once crossed his mind to touch another woman, but now, Harry felt he hardly had the strength to keep himself from her.

Ruth opened the door and stepped inside, turning to face him. "Tomorrow at nine, then? It won't take me long to pack. I'll be ready."

Harry smiled and said, "Yes, nine. I'll be here."

Neither of them really wanted to stop gazing at the other, but finally, Harry felt he had to say something. "Goodnight, Ruth," he said softly.

"Goodnight, Harry." And then, to his surprise, Ruth leant up, just as she had that first night, and kissed him on the cheek. She held her lips there for a moment longer, and said, "Thanks for understanding," before she closed the door and he was standing alone.

Harry stood looking at the door for an instant before he turned and walked to his car. He felt a lightness that had been missing for over a year, and just as he had so long ago, he put his hand to his cheek where he could still feel the softness of her lips.

As he opened the driver's side door, his mobile rang. He looked at the screen and opened it. "Home Secretary."

"Sorry to call you so late, Harry. I was hoping you could meet me at Thames House."

Harry looked quickly at his watch. 10:30. "I can be there in twenty minutes, if that will suit? I'll call the officer on duty and let him know you're coming. He'll let you in, and show you up to my office."

In twenty-two minutes, Harry walked through the Grid doors and found Nicholas Blake standing behind the glass wall of his office. Harry made his way toward his desk. "Not often we see you this time of night. Must be something important."

Harry sat down, but the Home Secretary remained standing. "You think you're being bugged here? Spies listening to spies?"

Harry frowned. "What are you worried about?"

"I've been approached." Blake finally sat down across from Harry.

"By whom?" Harry asked.

"An American contact."

"Name?" Harry's curiosity was beginning to get the better of him.

Blake leant back in the chair. "I can't, Harry, but somebody high up. He had grave concerns about a plot to challenge the world order as we know it."

Now Harry's frown deepened. "A plot, as in ... ?"

"He didn't go into specifics, but he talked about divisions in their intelligence services and a high-level meeting in Switzerland. I think he wanted me to warn somebody." Harry tilted his head slightly, as the Home Secretary continued. "So here I am. Warning the somebody that I trust the most."

Harry nodded. Although he didn't show it, the compliment meant quite a lot to him. "We'll look into it."

"My contact is not a man prone to exaggeration. Whatever that meeting was about, whoever was involved, he made it sound very big." Now Nicholas Blake looked Harry right in the eye, and said ominously, "He was scared, Harry."

Harry paused for a moment and sat back. "We've received intelligence that the Bendorf Group is meeting on Monday, at Ashenden's house. We have no idea what the agenda is, but it seems logical that if there's a plot to challenge the world order, they would know about it."

Blake raised his eyebrows. "Most of the people in this country don't even believe that group exists. But it's quite a coincidence that they're meeting in the UK just as this threat comes to light." Blake leant forward slightly. "Can you get in there and find out?"

Nodding, Harry said, "I'll see if we can get a bug into the meeting room. The Bendorf members have a healthy sense of paranoia, and they always hire outside security. Ros Myers can go in as one of them."

Blake stood, frowning. "The Switzerland meeting is strictly 'need to know,' Harry."

Harry stood as well, and smiled. "I understand. The Bendorf Group has been on our radar for a while. No one on the Grid will question the need to have ears on that meeting."

"Good. Keep me posted, will you?" The Home Secretary shook Harry's hand and started toward the door.

Harry followed him, turning off his light. "Absolutely. I'll walk you out, Home Secretary."

As their footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, Blake said, "I know it's late, Harry. I hope I didn't take you away from the farewell party?"

Harry shook his head, "No, we said a suitable goodbye, and made it an early night. Malcolm very much appreciated your note, by the way. He said he would send you a proper thank you, of course."

Both men smiled, knowing that if anything was certain, a proper thank you from Malcolm Wynn-Jones was one of them.

When they reached the lift, Harry turned to Blake and said, "And you should know that Ruth Evershed is coming back to work for us."

"Ah, good, Harry." Blake motioned Harry to go first into the lift. "You're pleased about that?"

Harry turned around, but kept his eyes straight ahead. "Yes, very much so. She's an extraordinarily talented analyst, and a valuable asset to the team." Harry pushed the button for the Lobby.

Blake narrowed his eyes slightly at Harry's formal tone. But he, too, kept his eyes focused on the closing doors, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

Ruth woke early, full of anticipation. As she packed her few possessions, she felt acutely all the packing and unpacking she'd done since the day she'd filled her carry-all for Bath, so long ago. Finally, after two long years, Ruth was going home.

There were so many emotions swirling in her that she'd gotten little sleep. She'd laid in bed going through the simple rooms of the safe house in her mind, mentally picking things up and putting them in boxes, and trying to imagine how Harry would look as she opened the door. She'd slept fitfully, and finally, as the morning light was beginning a soft glow through the curtains, she'd simply gotten up and started.

It was hard for Ruth to define her state of mind, but she had to admit it felt vaguely dreamlike. And with the dream came the fear that she might wake up. For so long she'd imagined coming home. Tonight she would sleep in her own bed, with Phoebe and Fidget at her feet. It was almost more than her mind could grasp.

Ruth filled the boxes that she'd emptied only days ago, and very quickly, she was done. She took a shower and got dressed, and just as she was filling the kettle, there was a knock at the door.

It was Harry. Ruth felt her heart swell, and she didn't think it was an accident that he was wearing the same blue shirt and black jeans he'd worn for their day at Henley-on-Thames. In one hand he held a paper tray with two take-away coffees, and in the other, a paper bag. His eyes danced, and Ruth thought there might not be two people in the world more content to be standing across from each other at this moment. Ruth smiled. This was Henry James Pearce who had come to pick her up, and she was very glad of it.

"Will this do for breakfast?" Harry said, raising his eyebrows.

Ruth reached out and took the bag, smiling. "I'll need more information," she said, peering in. "Mmm, yes." She could feel the warmth through the paper bag, and now she could smell the aroma of fresh-baked croissants. "Thanks, Harry," she said, as she stepped aside and motioned him in.

Walking to the kitchen worktop, he put down the coffees, and said, "There are a couple of strong men downstairs who will transport the boxes. You and I can go in my car, if that's alright?"

"I'm ready," she said, slightly breathless. Then she added, "I'm more than ready. I don't know quite how to thank you for this."

He turned and smiled at her. "Actually, you'd have to thank the real estate market. If I could've gotten the right price, I suppose I would've sold it long ago." But even as Harry casually said the words, he knew it wouldn't have been that simple. He'd always hoped she'd be home one day, and he had a feeling that selling her house would have been more difficult than he imagined.

Ruth got her purse and stood before him. "Do you mind if we eat when we get there?" She picked up her coffee and took a careful sip. "But this," she said smiling gratefully, "is _very_ good."

"Just as you like it," Harry said, softly. Ruth looked up at him, and gazed into the eyes of the man who knew her better than anyone on earth. Not only how she liked her coffee, but how she liked practically everything. The collar of his blue shirt was turned slightly, and she almost reached out to straighten it, but she stopped herself. It was as if they were both standing on a precipice, and Ruth knew the slightest move would topple them over the edge.

Harry saw her looking at his collar, and self-consciously, he reached up to it, and said, "What?" Being this close to her reminded him of so many moments – of the Havensworth hallway, their first dinner together, the minutes in the alcove, their nights on Cyprus. But most of all he was reminded of the morning before everything had gone so horribly wrong, the morning she had tied his tie for him. He'd given her a key to his house that day, and Harry had thought it was the beginning of everything, when in fact, it had been the end.

Ruth still had her eyes on his collar. "It's ... turned ... there, yes, good." She watched him find the offending fold, and the moment passed, just in time for both of them to breathe.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He pressed in one number, and brought the phone to his ear, saying, "Yes, we're ready." Within moments, two young men stood outside the door, and Harry showed them in, saying, "You have the address, yes?" Ruth quickly gave them instructions on what was to be moved, and then she and Harry walked down the stairs and to the car.

While Harry drove, Ruth sipped her coffee and tried not to watch him. It was impossible not to think of the drive to Bath, and for a few minutes, they rode in silence. It wasn't the slightest bit uncomfortable to be with Harry again, in fact, Ruth was marvelling at how natural it felt, when her mind rebelled, and the questions began to flood in.

She simply blurted out the question that emerged as the strongest. "What's different, Harry?"

He turned sharply and looked at her, needing clarification. The question was too broad, and was germane to far too many subjects for him to know how to reply. He raised his eyebrows, but was silent, and then he looked back at the road, waiting for her to continue.

"I mean ... I understand that you smoothed things over with the Home Secretary, and I'll assume that I'm not wanted for murder or treason any longer ..." Harry nodded, but still he was silent, because she clearly hadn't finished her question yet. " ... But ... the Redbacks ..." Ruth was having trouble even saying the word aloud, but she found her voice again, and continued. "I know that now isn't the time to talk about why you ... why I was left on Cyprus for so long, but I've had to assume it was for my own safety..."

Now Harry needed to speak, and he interrupted her. "It was. It was the only thing that kept me from you." He turned to her, and said forcefully, "You _have_ to know that."

Ruth knew where this was headed, and she simply wasn't ready for it. She wanted to say, _You could have come, if you'd left your job. But you couldn't leave your job._ The discussion that would follow was something that might break the fragile connection they'd just found together, and Ruth couldn't bear losing it right now. Someday, they would have that discussion, but not now, not so soon.

But still, she needed an answer to her original question, if only to be at peace with being back in England. "Then, what's different? Why am I safe now, if I wasn't then? Was this an option that was always available to me, even without Mani on my heels - to walk back into Britain as Faith Ruth Benson, to call the Grid and ask for sanctuary, and to be given back my name?" The emotion began to choke Ruth, and she turned away toward the window. She was surprised to find that it wasn't tears that were causing her throat to constrict, but anger.

Ruth managed to control her voice, and she asked again, "Why is it different now, Harry?"

Harry turned his eyes toward the road and held them there. His problem was that he didn't really have an answer to her question. The Redbacks had set their sights elsewhere of late, but it had been a movement by inches, with fewer and fewer cases of officers being abducted, even in Europe, and none from MI5 since Ruth. Now the word was that they seemed to be concentrating their energies on the Middle East. Yalta and Juliet had gone underground - there was no way of knowing whether they would surface again either, but the popular assumption in the intelligence community was that they had disbanded.

"Well, for one thing, we believe the Redbacks and Yalta are no longer the threat they once were."

Although she tried to hide it, Ruth felt something like a fist to her stomach. She said softly, looking out the window, "And when were you going to tell me that it was safe for me to come home?"

Harry felt her pain so acutely that he nearly pulled the car over. But he agreed with her that now was not the time. He wanted to say, _I was coming to you. I had my bag packed, and my flight chosen._ But he knew she would ask, _Why didn't you?_ And he would say, _Because I had to save the bloody world again._

Ruth was immediately sorry she'd asked the question. It was too painful to do this, and they were still too new together. He'd brought her coffee, and a croissant, and was taking her home. They would talk about this when they were stronger. She would ask him out for a drink, and they would discuss it calmly, rationally, without the anger she still felt in her throat.

Looking down at her hands, Ruth said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this today. I just need to know that I won't be taken again."

He turned to her and shook his head lightly, "They're very reasonable questions, Ruth. And you've the right to ask them. We need to talk about this, but I agree with you it may be too soon." He turned back to the road, and said, "As to your safety, if you're amenable, I'd like to have you kept under surveillance for a time, to be certain." He looked back at her, "If you're willing."

Ruth managed a slight smile, and Harry smiled back at her. It wouldn't have surprised either of them to realise that they were thinking the same thing. Surveillance would not only keep Ruth safe. It would also keep Harry and Ruth from moving too quickly toward each other.

Unless, of course, they kept it a secret.

* * *

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a house key. He handed it to Ruth, and with a look of gratitude that he would long remember, she put the key in the lock, and opened the front door.

Before she had a chance to get more than one step inside, Ruth found herself at the centre of a swirling mass of fur, half grey, half white, rubbing back and forth across her calves and ankles. There was no question that Phoebe and Fidget remembered her, and Ruth dropped quickly to her knees and put an arm around each, laughing as they wriggled and squirmed.

Harry laughed too, and said, "Fickle girls! Had me convinced that they loved _me_."

Ruth looked up with radiant joy on her face. "I'm sure they do, Harry." She stood, and managed a few steps into the hallway, saying affectionately to the cats, "Move now! let us in!" She opened the door wide for Harry, and looked back at him in invitation. Her cheeks were flushed with happiness, and he thought her exquisitely beautiful. He stepped in, closing the door behind him.

From there, Ruth simply walked around her house, running her fingers across the backs of chairs and the frames of pictures on the wall. She smiled, and murmured, and at times turned back to him, as he walked a short distance behind her. At the stairs, she paused, and Harry said, "Shall I go, and leave you to look around on your own?"

She shook her head, and said, "No, please stay for breakfast, will you? I won't be a minute." Ruth went up the stairs, and Harry walked into the lounge.

He'd been here so many times in the last year, and done just what Ruth was doing now. He'd walked around and touched things, hoping to feel some essence of her, to gain some residual energy from holding things that she'd once used. Often, Harry had made sweet tea, and had sat on the sofa where she'd slept the last night she'd been here. He'd closed his eyes and remembered her peaceful face, and the feel of her lips on his.

And now, Ruth was truly here, and upstairs. He could hear her quiet footsteps in the bedroom above, and it was almost more than he could comprehend that she was back in London. He told himself again that he would take whatever she had to give him, and happily. Even if it went no further than this, he would live each day being grateful.

He heard a noise on the stair, and turned. "I shouldn't be offering breakfast without having shopped, should I? I suppose it may be only the croissants? I can warm them." She was animated as she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, and her happiness was infectious, making Harry smile. Out of habit, Ruth went to the refrigerator, although she expected it to be empty.

She looked inside, and was immediately taken back to Paris, when she had done the same thing in a strange, new flat. What greeted her were fresh eggs, vegetables, milk and bread - waiting for her, as if she'd just gone out to the shops. Ruth was surprised by the emotion that welled up in her chest, not only of gratitude, but from the juxtaposition of her desperate sadness on that day, and the elation of being home once more.

She turned to Harry, her eyes moist, and said, "Thank you." She paused for just a moment, and said, softly, "Again."

Harry smiled back, and the love in his eyes was palpable. "Not me. Faeries."

She laughed and said, "Then do me a favour, and thank them for me, will you?"

"They're very hard to pin down," Harry said. "But I'll give it my best." For a moment, they stood gazing at each other. Ruth still had the refrigerator door open, and Harry was perched on the back of the sofa. They could move into each other's arms so easily, and both knew it. Harry waited to see what Ruth would do, and, with a growing sense of hope, he watched the struggle she went through. He knew, as he saw her chest rise and fall with quickening breath, that if it weren't this moment, it would be another. He felt the inevitability of their love take residence in his heart.

Ruth smiled as she looked back at the contents of the refrigerator, and the world began to turn again. For the last few moments, she'd had the peculiar sense that they'd been in a tunnel, with no sound, and nothing outside her field of vision but Harry and the look in his eyes. Now, she began chattering about what she would make for breakfast, pulling things out and putting them on the worktop, but the connection between them had been hypnotising and unmistakeable.

She'd felt herself pulled toward him, almost as if she'd watched herself walk over to where he was, put her arms around his neck, and brought her lips to his. In that split second, she'd felt the length of his body pressing against hers and his breath on her cheek, as if she'd actually done it. And now, as she regained her composure, she wondered why she hadn't, and realised that she'd been afraid.

Not of Harry, certainly – Ruth knew that she wanted him more than anyone or anything she'd seen in two years of exile. She wasn't able to bring it into clear focus, but it was a vague feeling of fate, of that progression from one thing to the next that she'd tried to understand earlier. And the sense that if this was her second chance to do things differently, she didn't want to fall into the same trap. So in a fashion, half of her had walked to Harry and kissed him, and the other half had stood back and been cautious.

"May I help?" Harry stood and walked to the kitchen, pulling Ruth out of her reverie.

She turned and handed him the eggs, "Scramble, please." Looking around, she said, "It won't be full English, but ... " She stopped herself, blushed, and shook her head. She put down the things she was holding and turned to face Harry, taking a deep breath. It was not lost on either of them that they were in exactly the same positions they'd been in when Harry had made her sweet tea on the day of Maudsley's death.

"Look, there's clearly quite a lot we're not talking about here, and I appreciate that you haven't pushed me into doing it." Ruth's voice was firm, and Harry smiled, seeing her in full earnest analyst mode. If possible, he loved her even more in her seriousness.

"I'll wait as long as you need me to, Ruth. I promised that."

"Thank you," she said, more softly. She tilted her head slightly, and said, "There's so much to say, Harry, but I suppose what I want to say now is that in the last year, I missed you so terribly, of course ... " Ruth paused, choosing her words carefully, "But what I realised is that I missed my friend, the one I could talk to about everything, the one who knew me so well ..."

Harry understood completely. "I felt the same way," was all he could manage to say.

Ruth smiled. "That's good," she said. "I'm glad you did, because I need to find that friend again before I can complicate things with ... all the rest of it." She pulled herself up a little straighter. "But I don't want you to believe ... for a moment ... that I'm not thinking about ... the rest of it."

Harry's smile grew wider, and against all odds, he stayed where he was. "Thank you for saying that," he said softly. "It's very good to know."

Ruth felt her breath coming faster, and she knew they were dangerously close to doing the opposite of what she'd just described. Quickly, she pointed to the cupboard where the bowls were. "And _this_ is where I tell you again to scramble the eggs."

Harry laughed, and reached up for a bowl. "You're quite bossy, you know that?"

Ruth gave a sigh of relief, and laughed as well, "You're not the first to tell me."

Ruth and Harry made breakfast, and sat at her table to eat. While they ate, the men arrived with Ruth's boxes, and after the men left, Harry and Ruth still talked on. Harry fed Fidget from the table, and Ruth chastised him roundly. Harry told Ruth stories of dinners with Tom and Christine, and of Ros' reactions to Tariq, and she laughed. He told her the complete story of Malcolm's courage, and his decision to retire, and of Lucas' return and Connie's treachery.

Ruth, in turn, told stories of Cyprus and the people there, of the harvest at the vineyard, and the peace of the sea. She talked of Christina and her earthiness, of the simple goodness of the Cypriot mountain dwellers, and the generosity of their spirits. She told Harry about her love for Nico, but she painted George with a broad brush, never getting into specifics, and never uttering the word, "love."

In short, two friends who had been apart for a long time caught up with each other's lives. There was such a lot they couldn't say, and they meticulously left out the heartache, the despair, and the anguish of their separation. But both realised how much joy had actually been in their lives whilst they'd been apart, although at the time it had seemed strongly tainted by missing each other. Now that they were together again, they could see the times for what they were.

And Harry and Ruth realised that what had been lacking during those times was the sharing of them. Most of all, they'd missed telling the tales to the one person they loved most in the world.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-SIX**

* * *

"You're all flustered," Ruth said.

Harry felt the joy of hearing her voice, even before he turned to look at her. She was with him on the Grid again, for the first time in such a long time, and just as he'd said to her at the Hotel Anassa, she was wearing blue. _Ruth blue_.

If he weren't in the middle of a crisis, Harry might have more time to enjoy this moment, but for now, he could only turn and gently point out to her what she already knew better than anybody, "Yes, well, that happens sometimes."

Harry walked toward her, quickly filling her in on the latest crisis. "Such as when a group of armed thugs kidnap eight of the wealthiest and most politically powerful men on the planet."

"And on my first day back, too. Harry, you shouldn't have," Ruth said, teasing him. In truth, she was pleased – not that something bad was happening, of course – but she was glad she might have a chance to be useful. She looked into Harry's eyes, and could see that her arrival was an emotional moment for him. She understood completely. Before she'd walked through the glass doors, she'd had to pause to calm her hammering heart.

Harry took her playfulness as permission to do the same. "Either that or a basket of muffins," he said, keeping his gaze firmly on her. Suddenly they were both awash in the memory of the balcony in Calais, two white terry robes, and Harry's eccentric description of the perfect gift.

Ruth responded with an easy laugh. "Oh, no, you _really_ shouldn't have."

They'd gotten through the first moments of nervousness, and now Ruth was ready to get to work. "Someone's grabbed the Bendorf Group?"

"Yes." Harry was impressed. _Two years away, and she immediately knows what's going on_. He'd missed Ruth, but he'd also sorely missed his best analyst. "They've also got Ros."

"Is she alright?"

"We've no idea. We don't even know where they are."

"Harry!" Tariq called out from his computer station. Harry walked to him to see what he'd found, and Ruth followed.

Tariq pointed to a diagram on his screen. "These are the floor plans for Ashenden's house. Look at this here ... there's no tunnel going anywhere. Just this big space here. I think he's got himself some kind of underground rumpus room."

"Rumpus room?" Harry asked.

"Panic room," Tariq explained. "An underground bunker. That must be where they're holding them."

Harry said, "Get the plans to Lucas and Jo. If Ros is down there, she'll be without comms or support."

Ruth finally spoke from behind Harry. "Who else knows?"

Harry turned to answer her. "Just us."

Ruth nodded. "Good. Because once this gets out, you're going to get a lot of angry calls from some very powerful people."

Ruth was still looking at Tariq's computer screen when Harry moved close to her and said softly, "You come with me."

Harry led the way to his office, and Ruth followed him through the door. She was back in Harry's office, and watched as he pulled the door closed behind her. He motioned to the chairs by the glass wall, and said, "Take a seat."

Ruth smiled at his formality. This was certainly Harry of the Grid, but different somehow. His edges seemed to have softened, his voice was gentler, and there was almost an air of deference, of shyness about him. Ruth was never more aware that she saw a Harry Pearce that no one else knew.

On her way to the chair, she glanced at his desk, remembering the day she had sat there in the dark, feeling its power. Harry stopped and picked up an envelope, which he handed to her before he sat down. "Open it." Ruth did, and pulled out a brand new passport. Harry said softly, "Welcome back to the world of the living."

Ruth opened it, and there was her name. _Ruth Elizabeth Evershed_. She thought it would take quite a number of words to describe the feelings that welled up in her as she saw it written there. And above her name, the same photo that Malcolm had used for Sophie Persan and Faith Benson. Her eyes looked back at her almost triumphantly, as if aware that someone had finally gotten the name and the face matched correctly. And again, she thought with a smile, _I really need a new passport photo_.

She looked up at Harry. "It's a bit odd being back here..." His eyes were so full of kindness and compassion, that Ruth had to look away. She looked down to her passport again, as she continued, "...After everything that's happened."

"Yes. I know. I'm sorry." He was aware that he'd promised her some _minor_ excitement, not a full-scale hostage situation. "I hadn't intended this to happen on your first day."

Ruth looked up with a slight frown. "But Ros?"

"Ros wasn't put in there because of any perceived threat. We had no idea anything was in the offing. I sent her in there because of something the Home Secretary asked me to look into. Quietly."

"Which is?"

It was an analyst's question. A reasonable question. And in the seconds before Harry answered her, he remembered the Home Secretary's caveat that the information he'd given Harry was on a "need to know" basis. Blake had said he was telling Harry because he was the person he trusted the most. Well, Harry thought, _The person I trust the most is sitting here with me now_.

And deep inside, Harry suddenly realised he was tired of always standing alone. Ruth had one of the most incisive minds he'd had the privilege to know, and for the most part, she had unerring instincts. If he was going to ask her to help him, she needed all of the information he could give her.

Harry turned to Ruth. "Some rumblings he heard from an American contact. Dangerous rumblings. A high-powered meeting in Switzerland. Talk of the need for change."

Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Change can be good."

Shaking his head, Harry said, "Not this change. I thought the Bendorf Group might be involved."

"Hence Ros."

"Hence Ros. Although she has no idea of the exact reason she was put in there. As does no one else here." Harry looked directly at Ruth. "Except you." Ruth glanced up quickly at him, her eyes wide. And then, just the hint of a smile came to her lips. _No one. Except you_.

Harry said gently, "I'm going to need you today, Ruth."

She smiled and nodded. "Damn well hope so," she said firmly.

Harry's mobile rang and he looked at the screen. Then, in a gesture she couldn't ever remember seeing him make, he held his phone out to her so that she could see the name "Nicholas Blake" on it before he answered. It was a very personal, almost intimate gesture from a man she knew to be very private on the Grid.

"The fun begins," Harry said to her as he opened his phone to pick up. Ruth stood, and let herself quietly out of his office.

* * *

Ros was in the bunker, Lucas was at Ashenden's estate with Jo, and now Harry was on the phone with the Home Secretary. Ruth walked out to Tariq, and realised she was still wearing her coat. As she hung it up on the coat rack, she looked around the Grid to orient herself, but very little was the same.

Tariq saw her standing in the middle of the room, and smiled. "You're next to me," he said, pointing to the desk at right angles to his own. "Harry had me set you up with a username this morning. The password is 'password'." Tariq winked and smiled at her. "But if you don't want your head taken off, I suggest changing it."

"I'll do that." Ruth smiled. She already liked Tariq. She'd not talked with him at Malcolm's party, although she'd hoped she would get the chance. He was clearly brilliant, but there was something else about him that put Ruth at ease right away – a sort of casual charm, and an accepting nature. She had trouble imagining him losing his cool. And although she already missed Malcolm, she thought she could learn quite a lot from Tariq.

Ruth sat down at her new desk and placed her purse in the bottom drawer. There were a few basic office supplies on and in the desk, but she found a pad of paper and a pen and quickly wrote down the additional things she would need. Once she had logged on and changed her password, she turned to Tariq, and asked, "So, what do you need me to do?"

For the first time, but definitely not the last, Ruth marvelled at Tariq's ability to carry on a normal conversation whilst tapping away at complicated programming on his keyboard. He continued in his task of trying to break through Ashenden's computer defences while he talked.

"All eight members of the Bendorf Group are in the bunker along with Ros. There are also at least five heavily-armed gunmen. According to Harry, the meeting they were about to have doesn't even exist, so any kind of back-up is out of the question. So basically, we have Ros inside, and Lucas and Jo outside, and you and me here." Tariq finally looked at Ruth, and smiled.

Ruth couldn't keep herself from smiling back. Tariq pointed at the CCTV of Ashenden's house that was up on his screen, and showed Ruth one of the gunmen. "I've identified this one, seems to be the leader. Finn Lambert. I have his current record, but can you see if there's some history on him?" Ruth nodded, as Tariq turned to yet another computer. "I'm going to see if there's a phone down there."

After quickly memorising the diagram of the house, Ruth moved over to her own computer and began researching Finn Lambert. She'd just pulled her research together when there was a call from Lucas. Ruth took the call, and then pushed the button to put it on speaker so that she and Tariq could both listen and answer.

Lucas' tone was urgent. "Tell me about this lift."

Ruth said, "It goes fifteen metres down into a panic room, which is sealed in reinforced concrete."

"The lift's the only way in or out," Tariq added.

"Right, well, we need to know who's in that panic room," Lucas said. "Get Harry to authorise a satellite thermal sweep of the building."

Jo's voice now came over the speaker. "Tariq, there's got to be a phone down there for them to call out. Some kind of emergency secure line."

Ruth said, "Tariq's running a GPS on the telecoms. We'll pick up every line within a hundred yards."

Lucas clicked off just as Harry emerged from his office. Tariq looked up at him and said, "Harry, I've managed to break the encryption around Ashenden's CCTV. The footage shows who arrived for the meeting."

Harry came to stand behind Tariq, but not before pulling out a chair and being certain that Ruth was seated comfortably in front of the computer station. One by one, members of the Bendorf Group came into sight and walked up the stairs to Ashenden's house. As Harry listened in admiration, Ruth described each one in turn, "That's B.S. Cheng, China's sixty billion dollar man." She squinted slightly at the screen. "Then we get ... erm ... Simeon Tarasovich, Russian steel magnate. Thomas Mickelson..."

Harry nodded. "Ah, yes. New York's finest. Big player in oil and gas. Are all eight members of the Bendorf accounted for?"

Tariq said, "Yes. Gevitsky was the last to arrive."

Harry frowned at the images on the screen. "Do we know how the terrorists got in?"

Ruth looked up at Harry, and said, "Yeah. Through Gevitsky. More specifically, his niece, Nina." Ruth pointed out a young woman, dressed entirely in black.

"What about the others?" Harry asked.

Tariq pointed to another window on the screen. "I've ID'd the leader as Finn Lambert. Thirty-two. French origin."

Harry leant down for a closer look. "He doesn't care whether we see who he is or not."

"Never a good sign," Ruth said.

Tariq pulled up Lambert's bio. "Lambert's been on file for years as a political activist. Cautioned at the G20 protests. Arrested last year for vandalising the property of a disgraced banker."

"A regular anti-capitalist crusader, then?" Harry said.

"Oh, no, he's more than that." Ruth looked up at Harry. "His parents were involved with a French left-wing terror group called _Action Directe_. He's been going to protests since he was in nappies. At seventeen, he won scholarships to Oxford and the Sorbonne, but he was thrown off every course for arguing with tutors."

For just a split second, Harry and Ruth looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. They were working together just as they always had. _Just like that. Two years had passed, so much had happened, and it was the same_. Harry was still asking the hard questions, and Ruth was still finding the answers. The look they gave each other was one of warm gratitude. Their relationship might be somewhat up in the air, but this still worked. It was a way for them to be together, no matter what, and each breathed a sigh of relief.

Lucas managed to talk to Lambert by phone, and was told that this was all about the fact that one-percent of the world's population controlled ninety-five-percent of its wealth, but he was giving no information beyond that.

Tariq started getting data from the protest blogs he monitored regularly, and they were saying to stay tuned for a major event that would be sent out as a webcast. Once he pulled it up, Harry, Ruth and Tariq watched in horror as Lambert explained that he would put the eight members of the Bendorf on public trial for their crimes against humanity and the environment. He started with Thomas Mickelson, the American. Lambert made it clear that he was going to give those watching the opportunity to vote on whether Mickelson was innocent or guilty of the crimes he was enumerating.

Harry moved to an empty computer station to watch the webcast. He was slightly removed from the noise of the Grid, but still close enough to get news from Lucas and Jo. On the screen, Lambert was berating Mickelson loudly. Harry had hoped to get a glimpse of the others in the room, to perhaps see Ros, but the camera was fixed in place.

Harry's mobile rang, and he exhaled as he saw that it was Nicholas Blake again. The first words the Home Secretary spoke were, "We have to find a way to end this, Harry." It was a very short phone call. Blake explained that he'd gotten a call from the CIA, and they were adamant. The trials had to stop.

"I understand," Harry said, and closed his mobile. He put his head in his hands, knowing that understanding was not the same as solving the problem. He had no way to communicate with Ros, no avenue to get into the bunker, and no means by which to negotiate with Lambert. Harry felt dead in the water.

"Harry." He looked up, and Ruth stood in front of him. Thank Christ, she had the look – _the Ruth look_, the one that said she had just solved the Sunday crossword, or had sorted the answer to a particularly sticky problem.

"You've found something," he said, suppressing the smile he felt beginning.

"I checked the immigration databases."

"And?" Harry asked.

"Lambert has been out of the country a lot over this year. Most notably, two long stints in Russia, where, not surprisingly, the trail ends, thanks to a spectacularly unhelpful FSB." Ruth's eyes were dancing, and Harry could see how much she truly loved this job.

"Not an unusual pilgrimage for an aspiring Bolshevik." Harry could tell she hadn't gotten to the gist of what she wanted to tell him.

Ruth tilted her head. "No, he flew First Class."

"Ah. So these are the antics of a rebel trustafarian?"

"He doesn't have a penny to his name." Ruth was clearly enjoying the guessing game.

Harry frowned. "Then what?"

"A benefactor." Now Ruth allowed herself a smile, as she sat back on a desk. "An offshore company, of course. But the lawyer who set it up is based here."

_Finally, a lead. And a very good one._ Harry's gratitude showed on his face. A moment ago, they'd had nothing on the supposedly idealistic Finn Lambert. Now there was a possibility of some connection to a benefactor's money, which did not look good for someone who was so violently opposed to capitalism. Flying First Class? Leave it to Ruth to discover something like that.

"Look into it," Harry said. She began to walk away, and Harry realised he had to give voice to what he was feeling. "And Ruth?"

She turned, expecting him to give her further instructions. "Yes, Harry?"

Harry had his back to her, because he didn't trust himself to be looking at her when he said it. He was remembering a night on the Grid, when he'd felt he'd been away for a long time. He'd been so grateful to step back through the pods after being cleared of unfair charges, and the one person he'd wanted to see was Ruth. He'd turned to look at her desk, and there she was, as he'd told her once, looking like an angel. She'd said something that night that had made him feel as if he'd truly returned, and now Harry wanted to do the same for Ruth.

"Good to have you back."

They were the words Ruth had dreamt of hearing, during the long days and nights on Cyprus. And Ruth knew that they were about so much more than the work, although that was what prompted them. They were about the talk she and Harry had yesterday over eggs and toast. They were about their laughter, and their friendship, and even the potential that was held in the love they still felt for each other. Ruth felt her throat catch, but she managed to speak with a strong, clear voice. She repeated the same words Harry had said to her, on that night that they both remembered so well.

"It's good to be back."


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-SEVEN**

* * *

Ruth was afraid she might be sick. Until very recently, watching a computer screen as a man was executed was not something she'd ever done in her life, and now she'd done it twice in the space of fourteen days. The first was George, and now, Thomas Mickelson.

Finn Lambert was still talking in front of a curtain dotted with Mickelson's blood, and again, Ruth had watched someone senselessly lose their life. It was incomprehensible. Mickelson may not have been a particularly good man, but he had a wife and children, friends and colleagues. _No one deserves to die this way_, Ruth thought. For a moment, the shock stunned her. The parallels were too stark, and she thought she might simply stand up, get her coat, and go. Her hands were at her knees under the desk, clutching her legs so tightly that the blood was beginning to pool around her fingertips in angry red marks.

And then a hand laid on her shoulder, lightly. Harry still looked forward, his eyes riveted on Lambert, but his fingers touched Ruth's neck, and she felt them warm and steady there. Tariq was much too busy with his computer to notice, and anyone walking by would see nothing out of the ordinary in the gesture, simply Harry's desire to move closer to the computer screen, to fit himself between Ruth and Tariq in the close space. But it was so much more.

Harry was seeing and hearing it again as well. Mani saying, _Now, kill the man_, and the sharp ping of the silenced gun, the small puff of smoke as George went to his knees. And Harry knew that if he was remembering it, so was Ruth. He felt her desire to run, and he wanted her to know that he understood. After just a moment, Harry could see Ruth's hands relax their grip. He felt her shoulders move lower, and heard her exhale softly.

"They're going to kill them all," Ruth said. She was regaining control, blinking back the tears that had started. Harry's touch had reminded her that leaving the Grid wouldn't stop this from happening, it would only mean that she would be powerless to do anything about it. And Ruth had decided she was no longer going to feel powerless.

"I don't want this turning into even more of a media frenzy than it already is." Harry's voice was soft, low, and she could hear that he'd been affected deeply by what he'd seen. "The fact that this is taking place in London hasn't been made public yet, has it?"

"No," Ruth said. "But the press will figure it out before the next trial kicks off."

Harry turned to Tariq, "Keep trying to shut it down." Then Harry lifted his hand from Ruth's shoulder, and turned to her. For a moment, he simply looked at her with his eyes soft, wordlessly asking if she was okay.

Ruth gave him a small nod. She knew that the best way to get through this was to get back to work. After a deep breath, she said, "The name of the lawyer who set up the money is Timothy Benson, and he lives here in London. What we don't know is the name of the benefactor, but I have an idea who does."

Harry tilted his head as Ruth continued. "Benson has been under CIA surveillance for some time. I've a feeling they know who he's working with. There's a new CIA liaison, Sarah Caulfield?" Harry nodded silently. "Perhaps we could get her to meet with us?"

Raising an eyebrow, Harry said, "And why would she tell us anything?"

Ruth smiled wryly. "I think Fleet Street might be interested in the fact that Benson's been brokering deals that have led to _this_..." Ruth pointed at the computer screen. "If Sarah Caulfield won't tell us, perhaps the press will."

Harry smiled, his eyes warm. "I'm very glad you're on our side, Ruth. Set it up, please."

Knowing that Nicholas Blake wanted to be kept in the loop, Harry turned toward his office, pulled out his mobile and pressed in Blake's number. Just as he reached his office door, Blake picked up. "Home Secretary."

"Talk to me, Harry."

Harry walked into his office, and sat down behind his desk. "We've made a breakthrough. Something which may help us shut this down."

The Home Secretary sounded unconvinced. "The next trial is about to begin," he said, and then added ominously, "We can't allow it to go ahead."

"What are you saying?" Harry pulled up the webcast on his office computer.

"What do you think?"

Harry took a deep breath. He knew exactly what Blake was saying. The Americans were putting pressure on the Home Secretary to stop this, and Blake was planning to have CO19 do whatever was necessary. "Storming would be suicide. I won't do it."

The Home Secretary wasn't backing down. "I'm ordering you to do it."

Harry's voice rose in anger. "There is one entrance. It's a lift shaft, the room's rigged with explosives. If we go in, it'll be a bloodbath." He paused. "And I've got Ros Myers in there."

"I'm sorry, Harry. This is hard for everyone. But if you won't order it, I will do it myself." Then with the finality of a decision already made, the Home Secretary simply said goodbye and rang off.

Harry stood and walked out of his office. Now, not only did he have to prevent Lambert from executing the Bendorf Group one by one, but he had to keep the Home Secretary from blowing up the whole bloody estate. Harry meant to go straight to Ruth's desk to find out how soon Sarah Caulfield would be willing to meet - but on his way, he looked into the computer room, where a junior analyst was watching a tape of Mickelson's execution on multiple screens, and writing down her observations.

Harry stopped suddenly, transfixed. _What a business this is_, he thought. The world had changed so much, and spying had to keep pace. Harry found himself thinking it may finally have changed beyond his ability to comprehend it. The veterans he'd thought he could count on, like Qualtrough and Connie, had turned to a cause he'd never understood. Malcolm, who had been his mainstay for so many years, was on his way to the sea to read books. Others that might have taken his place, like Adam, had lost their lives, violently. And now Harry was watching this horrifying drama played out on the internet.

When Tariq had so casually explained "server jumping," Harry had nodded, but as he watched the multiple computer screens, he had to admit that it all felt quite beyond him. This had become a technical war, and to one accustomed to war in the trenches, it was a bit dizzying. Even Malcolm, with all his expertise, had become disillusioned. He couldn't seem to get Malcolm's words, and especially the tone of his voice as he'd said them, out of his head. _Harry, I'm dog-tired, really_.

A hand touched his arm, and Harry spun round, startled. Ruth was there, and had been for some time, he thought, watching him as he'd stared at the computer screens playing and re-playing Mickelson's death. In her eyes, Harry saw not only the empathy of their shared experience, but he also felt the comfort of her understanding. He could see that Ruth, too, despite all her wonderful logic and technical knowledge, was at a loss to comprehend what they were seeing through the doorway.

But however they might feel about it, there was a problem to be solved, and Harry knew he had no better ally than the woman who stood beside him. Ruth smiled slightly at him, her hand still on his arm. "Sarah Caulfield will be here in ten minutes."

* * *

Sarah didn't want to tell them, but in the end, she did. As Harry sat across from her with Ruth at his side, he marvelled again at Ruth's logic and ingenuity. _And on my first day back, Harry_. Indeed. She'd already shown him intricate pathways to solutions that would never have occurred to him, and the meeting with Sarah was just one more example.

Sarah tried to hold her ground, but in the end, all it took was Harry saying, "If we can come up with this much information in such a short time, I shudder to think what the combined resources of the world's media will find once we tip them off about Benson."

With narrowed eyes, Sarah frowned, and her voice went up a notch. "Are you blackmailing us?"

Harry didn't answer, but kept his gaze on Sarah as she attempted to call his bluff. She pushed Tim Benson's file back across the table toward Harry, letting him know that she was refusing to cooperate.

Without taking his eyes off Sarah's, Harry said softly, "Ruth." It was simultaneously a statement of power, and a threat.

"Sure." Ruth stood and went toward the door. Her attitude was unmistakable. Sarah could see, without a doubt, that Ruth was on her way to a telephone to call Fleet Street.

"Wait," Sarah said. Still she kept her eyes on Harry. "Tim Benson's a corrupt lawyer." Silently, Ruth turned back from the door and regained her place next to Harry.

"I think we deduced that," Harry said, the edge clear in his voice.

"He has one client. This guy's really important to us, Harry. He's a major European asset."

Harry stood his ground. "He's also our only chance of making sure no one else dies."

Reluctantly, Sarah told Harry the name of Finn Lambert's benefactor. "His name's Vadim Robinov."

"Thank you." Harry turned to Ruth and smiled. This morning, they'd had nothing. Now they had a viable way of preventing more deaths. Harry pulled his mobile from his coat pocket and pressed in Lucas' number. When Lucas picked up, Harry said, "Lambert is being backed by Vadim Robinov."

Lucas knew the name. "Robinov? So what's a billionaire oligarch doing in league with a Marxist revolutionary like Lambert?"

"I don't know, but you need to find out." Harry stood and nodded quickly to Sarah to say goodbye as he gently took Ruth's arm and led her out of the meeting room. He inclined his head, indicating that Ruth should join him in walking to his office.

On the phone, Lucas asked Harry, "What? Now?" Lucas had thought he'd be staying at Ashenden's estate until the hostage situation was resolved. He looked over at Jo, realising this would leave her as the only MI5 officer on site.

"This is our last chance, Lucas. Time's running out," Harry said.

Lucas raised his eyebrows at Jo in a question. With a smile, Jo looked up at him and nodded. "Go."

* * *

Jo watched Lucas drive away, and for a moment, she looked around her. Alone, with a roomful of explosives below her and an impossible situation to deal with. _Just another day at the office_. The odd thing was, there really was nothing for her to do but to wait and to monitor the computer screens.

The solemn quiet in the entryway belied the violence of what was taking place in the bunker beneath her feet. One screen in front of her had the website feed, and the other the satellite imaging. Jo had determined which red dot was Finn Lambert, and she watched him as he moved about the room. But it seemed less a room than a prison cell, locked away from the world with only one exit.

Jo counted the red dots, and made notes on their positions. There was a line of people against a wall, and from the position of their bodies, they seemed to be sitting. Jo thought those might be the Bendorf members and their security teams, which meant that if Ros was still alive, she would be there. Jo wondered if Ros was afraid. Because although Ros didn't like to admit she was ever afraid, Jo had seen it in her eyes before. Just a flicker, and it was rare, but there, nonetheless.

And as it often did these days, Jo's mind wandered to Zaf. She'd thought time and again that she would have given anything to have been with Zaf in those last moments of his life, if only to hold him and to let him know that he was loved. Unfortunately, she had an all-too-clear picture in her mind of the room he must have been in, and of the rooms the Redbacks had used to interrogate him. They were cold, lonely places in which to contemplate the end of your life.

Jo adjusted the focus on the feed, and again, she counted the warm, red spots that conveyed the human beings in the bunker below her. She looked again at the spot that must have been Mickelson's body. The red had faded from bright to dull as the coldness of death overtook his body, and finally it could only be seen if she looked to the side of it, as a slight pink hue in her peripheral vision. _The end of another life_.

A sigh escaped her throat, and it echoed through the marble columns of the estate's entryway. Looking around, Jo thought of the money that had purchased this opulence, and how little good it was doing Ashenden now. She reached out and put her hand flat on the column next to her and felt the natural cold of the stone travel through her skin and into her taut muscles, and then finally into the delicate bones of her fingers. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the coldness of death. The cold that Zaf had felt.

Jo was so very tired. She was aware that something fundamental had been lost in her when Zaf died, and then Adam, but the real exhaustion of living had come on as she'd watched Bibi Saparova put the gun to her own temple and pull the trigger. It had sent a wave of sadness through Jo that was so severe, it seemed to have numbed the part of her that was still alive.

She had said to herself then, _We don't save anyone. They all die. And I will die. I'll join Zaf in a cold, metal drawer in the depths of the Archives, along with Adam and Ben. People will shake their heads at how young I was, and then they will say goodbye. Another bright young thing with potential and gravitas will sit in my chair and think they can change the world. And they won't be able to._

Jo forced her mind back to Zaf, but not the Zaf that lay in that cold cell. She saw his smile, and the look in his eyes that always told her she was special. He'd stopped her in the hall just before he'd left for Tehran, and had run the back of his hand across her cheek, saying there was something he wanted to talk to her about when he got back.

She'd had hope then, and now, as she counted the red dots that were living, breathing human beings, Jo tried to remember what hope felt like.

* * *

Harry closed the door to his office behind Ruth. For just a split second, he smiled, remembering the day he'd had to gently ask her to give him the seat behind his own desk. Now he extended his arm slightly, indicating that she should sit in the chair opposite his. Ruth remembered as well, and she felt a light blush come to her cheeks as she nodded and murmured, "Thanks."

Harry sat in his chair across from her. He knew they had very little time, but he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Are you alright?"

Ruth shook her head somewhat impatiently, and said, "I'm fine, Harry. It was just a shock to see that...again..." To her dismay, her voice trailed off, negating her statement of being "fine."

Ruth's hands were clasped in front of Harry on his desk, and he wanted badly to take them in his, but he resisted. Instead, he said softly, "I know what you were seeing, because I saw it too. I'm so sorry, Ruth." Then, kindly, he said, "Is this too soon? Everyone would understand if you needed more time."

"No." Ruth looked up sharply, realising her voice has risen more than she intended. She shook her head again, and said, more softly, "No. This is what I need. I've wanted this..." Hearing herself, she raised her eyebrows and corrected the statement, "...Well, not this situation, of course, but to be here on the Grid, to be useful again."

Harry sighed and gave her a resigned smile. "I'd really hoped we could ease you in a bit more slowly than this. That you could spend your day acclimatising ... " He looked over her shoulder to her new desk. Although he didn't say it, Ruth read the rest of his thought clearly. _... That I could steal looks at you, as I used to_.

Ruth smiled and turned to where he was looking, and then tilted her head back at him. "I was wondering about the placement of my workstation." She turned round again to face him. "You can see me, but I can't see you."

He smiled shyly at her. "I didn't want to presume."

"Oh, Harry," Ruth said softly. In her mind, what came after was so natural, so completely true, that she almost said it. _Oh, Harry, I do love you_. In fact, Ruth knew she was so close to saying it that a shot of adrenaline coursed through her as she told herself that now was not the time, and this was definitely not the place. She sat a little straighter, and forced her tone to be light. "I'll restrain myself from moving furniture on my first day back, but we may have to revisit that arrangement. I'm not sure I'm comfortable having my back to the boss."

Harry laughed lightly. "You say the word, and we'll change it."

The air was still and quiet, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft whirr of Harry's computer. Ruth was again aware of how the glass behind her created a space that was a part of, but separate from, the Grid. She was looking at his eyes, brown and liquid, and then, in spite of herself, she allowed her gaze to wander to his lips. From the easy laugh of a moment ago, his mouth had slowly transformed into a soft, serious state, lips slightly parted, as if about to speak. Ruth knew the feel of those lips as well as she knew any part of her own body.

Harry felt the change in Ruth, and although he could still see the activity behind her, everything slowed suddenly, and blurred, until she was all he could see. She seemed to be in the grip of a sort of gentle confusion. It was as if she was standing on a street corner, wondering whether to turn or to cross, and all of Harry's instincts told him to simply be still, and let her decide.

Then Ruth took a breath, and moving her gaze from his lips back to his eyes, she said softly, "Would you like to come to mine for dinner tonight, Harry?" She hardly knew she'd said it, but she could think of nothing she wanted more than to be in her own home, with the smell of her own cooking, the girls around her feet, and Harry's eyes looking at her across a flickering candle. Ruth wanted to have his hand on hers, and more than almost anything she could imagine, she wanted to know again the feel of his lips.

"Yes." Harry thought the word impossibly inadequate for how very much he wanted it. "I'd like that, Ruth."

"Good." Ruth was about to tell him when he should arrive, but reality descended on her quickly. She shook her head as if to clear it. "Depending on how everything turns out here, of course, we need to ... Perhaps this isn't the best time ..." She realised she was babbling, and simply stopped.

Now Harry reached his hand out and touched hers. "We'll talk later, shall we?"

Her head bobbing vigorously, Ruth said, "Yes. Good idea." Suddenly it occurred to Ruth that Harry had asked her into his office for a reason. Her curiosity moved her effortlessly into analyst mode, as Harry watched, charmed. "You wanted to talk to me, Harry?"

Switching gears to keep up with her, Harry retrieved his hand from hers and took a breath. "The Home Secretary is planning to take the bunker by force. Destroy it, if necessary, to keep another trial from happening."

"Killing everyone?" Ruth frowned. "The entire Bendorf Group? Ros? He can't. The backlash would be..." Ruth looked down at her hands for a moment, considering it, then she looked up at Harry with new resolve in her eyes. "What do we do?"

Harry asked the question that had come into his mind the moment Sarah had told them who Finn Lambert's backer was. "Why would Robinov fund Lambert? To wipe out the competition? The man's already worth more than 20 billion."

Ruth looked down, thinking for a moment, and said, "What if Robinov wasn't just out to grab some other oligarch's oil fields? What if he was after something much bigger?"

"Explain?" Harry asked.

"If Lambert can make Gevitsky and Tarasovich spill their guts ... embarrass their patrons like this ... " Looking up at Harry, Ruth paused, letting him finish her sentence.

"... It could cause a popular backlash in Russia and even help bring down the government. " Harry smiled. This is where Ruth never ceased to amaze him. He'd been thinking of the Bendorf Group as a whole, but she was able to break things down into their parts and get to the answer. Robinov only cared about two of the men in that room, and he was using Finn Lambert to further his own ends.

Ruth voiced Harry's next question. "Do you think Lambert's idealistic crew know what this is really about?"

"I doubt it. But if they did, if they knew they were being played ..."

"...They might turn against Lambert."

They both felt it. It was like a dance between the two of them, one leading, and then the other, until they reached the truth. Harry and Ruth were certainly good at their jobs alone, but together, they were so much more. It was as if they were building a structure, playing a game - Harry would place a piece, and then Ruth would find the perfect corresponding piece to lay on top of it. They allowed themselves just a moment of recognition, of how much each had missed the other, and Ruth continued.

"How do we get this information to Ros?"

"It would have to come straight from the horse's mouth. We've no time for subtlety here, Ruth. Speak to Jo and tell her the situation."

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-EIGHT**

* * *

The next trial was starting. Finn Lambert began another rant, and immediately, Harry's mobile rang.

"Home Secretary." Harry turned away from Tariq and Ruth. He was afraid he knew what this call was going to tell him, and his fears were confirmed by Nicholas Blake. "I'm calling as a courtesy. To inform you that I have personally ordered CO19 to storm the bunker."

Harry frowned and shook his head. "You're signing the death warrant of everyone in there." After hearing Blake say that he had no choice, Harry rang Lucas, who told him that although he'd managed to get Robinov to make contact with Lambert, the gambit hadn't worked.

One by one, Harry's options disappeared, and he began to realise that his last chance to stop this was Jo. Ruth had explained the situation to her in detail, and together she and Jo had tried to strategise what Ros might be doing to help them. Depending on where she was, Ros would know that the lift was the key. Either she would be trying to enable the lift herself, or she would be working at trying to turn one of Lambert's people and convincing them to push the button.

Jo had promised not to take her eyes off the red indicator on the lift, but short of that, there was nothing she could do. As she watched CO19 begin to secure the upstairs and lay charges, she opened her mobile and called the Grid. Harry pressed the speaker phone so that Tariq and Ruth could also hear Jo's voice. "Harry, it's over, they're preparing to move in."

Now Harry was completely out of options. _Oh, Ros. Why can I never save you?_ He began to feel despair creep in, but with the unerring instinct to protect those it was possible to protect, Harry said, "Jo. Get out of there. Now. There's nothing more you can do."

Jo was about to do as he said, when she saw the red indicator light on the lift change to green. "Wait." To her astonishment, the lift door opened, and it simply stood waiting for her to step in. She began to walk toward it as she spoke to Harry. "Something's happening to the lift. The lift's working."

Harry leant down closer to the phone, and without thinking it through fully, he gave her an order. "This is our chance. Jo, go in there. Tell them what we know. Try to turn Lambert's group against him before he blows the whole place up and everyone with it."

Without hesitation, Jo said, "I'm moving in." She walked toward the lift, but not before leaning down to rid herself of her mobile and her sidearm. She knew how many guns they must be holding in the bunker, and her training had taught her that being completely unarmed would give her a greater chance of survival.

Harry heard Jo's immediate assent, her lack of questioning of his order, and something began in the pit of his stomach. In fact, he almost called her back, nearly told her to step down and let CO19 take the lift, but before he could say anything, he heard the silence on the other end of the phone as Jo switched it off.

Harry looked to his left, and Ruth's eyes were on him, probing, asking the clear question, _Do you know what you've done? Sent Jo in with no back up, with only her wits?_ Ruth could still hear Jo's voice in her head, and what she'd said before they'd rung off not a quarter hour ago. "It's so good to have you back on the Grid, Ruth. It feels safer, somehow." Before saying goodbye, Ruth said, "We still have to have that talk. Perhaps this week?" And Jo had said, "Yes, I'd like that."

Now Ruth looked at Harry, but she couldn't think of what to say. It felt incomprehensible to her that a day that started with banter about muffins could end with the death of either Ros or Jo, or both. It just didn't seem possible.

Even as Harry broke her gaze and began a slow walk toward his office, Ruth told herself that it wasn't possible.

* * *

Before the lift door opened, Jo took a deep breath. In the few seconds it had taken her to complete her descent into the bunker, she had run through every scenario her mind could conjure. As the door opened, she was surprised to find that she'd been quite accurate.

She walked into chaos, and she very quickly had six guns levelled at her. By pure instinct, her arms went over her head in a show of submission. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm unarmed! I'm unarmed!" Jo clasped her hands behind her head, and began to speak what she'd hurriedly rehearsed in the lift. "Finn's been working with Robinov from the start. All the money, all the planning came from him."

As she spoke, Jo looked around, taking in her surroundings. Ros was there, and alive, thank God. She was crouched and ready to jump if she needed to, right next to Nina Gevitsky, who held a gun by her side. Lambert also held a gun, and it was now pointed at Jo. Another man, a young man with curly brown hair who Jo had seen identified as Rudy Korn, was allowing his gun to drop as he listened to what Jo was saying. His face registered the shock of what she'd just told them, as he turned to Lambert. "Tell me that's not true. Finn!"

Lambert kept his eyes trained on Jo, still pointing the gun, but he spoke to Rudy, behind him. "We had to fund this somehow. We made it here. We made it in here, didn't we?"

Rudy exploded in anger. "How could you? He's worse than they are. Robinov?"

Now Lambert turned, and allowed the gun to drop to his side. "We are _using_ him. To do what we want. We can still do this." Jo watched as Ros stood slowly from her crouch, her hands bound, with a look of pure determination on her face.

Rudy backed away from Lambert, shaking his head. "No, we can't. No. That's it, we're done. It's over." Lambert watched him, at first with a look of deep sadness, but it was quickly overtaken by his anger. He pointed the gun at Rudy and pulled the trigger. Rudy dropped to the floor, and immediately, a woman shot Lambert in the arm, and ran to Rudy's side.

Jo saw her chance, and she moved in to secure Lambert. From behind, she locked her arm around his neck. She could immobilise the gun he held in one hand, but in the other, to her horror, she saw the trigger for the explosives. If he managed to get his finger to the red button, the entire bunker, and probably most of the estate, would go up in an instant. Looking across the room, Jo could see that Ros now had Nina's gun pointing at Lambert.

Ros was looking at Lambert's hand, the one holding the trigger, but then her eyes moved slightly to her left, and she and Jo gazed at each other. A split second was all that separated them from a blinding flash of light and nothingness, and both of them knew it. The assessment of years of training told each all they needed to know - Lambert had to die, but it had to be fast, and he must be held still so that there was no chance of the button being accidentally pushed. There was only one way the situation could be played out successfully. Jo knew it, and so did Ros.

The room quieted, and time seemed to slow. With only her eyes, Jo gave Ros permission, and then she gave her forgiveness. In truth, Jo felt relieved. She wasn't putting the gun to her own head, as she'd thought about doing, but the result would be the same. Actually, it was so much better, because she was saving lives. Her parents would be proud, and the service would honour her. And wherever he was, she would finally find Zaf. She'd never been more certain of it than she was as she watched the shaking of Ros' hand, saw the doubt on her face, and answered the question she saw in her eyes.

Jo nodded to Ros. Not a resigned nod, nor a sad one. A resolved nod. A gift from one friend to another, with the acknowledgement that Ros would have to live out her days knowing that she'd killed Jo, whilst Jo was being given the gift of oblivion and the peace that would come with it. In that split second, Jo wanted Ros to know that it was alright.

And, on some level, as she pulled the trigger, Ros did know. She'd listened as Jo had poured out her demons, and Ros thought Jo was right in thinking they would never really go away. Some officers could face them down day by day, but Jo hadn't been able to.

Ros watched Lambert fall, and then saw Jo look down as the blood began to inch its way down her chest, spreading, blossoming in a riot of colour just before she, too, went to the floor. And as she watched, Ros thought she understood. Jo had looked confused for a moment, as if she couldn't believe it was really happening, but then, there had been a look of reconciliation as she fell, a draining away of emotion, and life, as she slid to the ground.

Ros knew that this moment would never leave her memory. As her knees buckled, Ros, who never cried, felt the warmth of a single tear as it coursed down her cheek.

* * *

"Thank you."

_Oh, those words again_. How many times had he thanked someone for terrible, unthinkable news. This time it was Ros he was saying the ridiculous words to, her voice shaking uncharacteristically, uncontrollably, as she related Jo's sacrifice and her own horror at what she'd just done. Harry told Ros that she'd had no choice, and Ros had tried unsuccessfully to convey what Jo seemed to be saying in the last seconds of her life.

But in the end, all Harry could say was, "Thank you." He let the phone fall from his ear, and cradled it in his hand on his desk. _Not Jo_. Over and over, the words echoed in his head. _Not Jo_. Harry thought if he could put himself where she was, right now, he would do it. If she could be here, still alive, her delicate features in the sad smile she'd worn so often lately, sitting at her desk on the Grid - if he only had the power, he would. _Not Jo._

"Harry?"

Ruth's voice seemed to be far away, but he turned, and there she was, standing beside his desk. She'd been watching him through the glass, and she'd seen him take the call. On some level, she knew, but as soon as she saw his eyes, Ruth was certain. He wasn't able to speak right away, so they simply stared at each other – Harry and Ruth, again sharing the inexpressible pain of a fallen colleague.

Finally, Harry spoke, his voice a monotone, seemingly devoid of feeling, but Ruth knew that it was precisely because he was feeling too much that he sounded the way he did. "We've lost Jo," was all he said.

"How?" Ruth asked, but it emerged from her throat less like a word, and more like the sound of a desperate exhale of breath. Ruth felt the tears coming, a flood of them, and she wanted Harry to stand, to walk to her and take her in his arms. She wanted the familiar feel of him, the comfort she knew it would give her to bury her face in his shoulder, to feel his hands on her back, to hear him whisper into her hair that it would be alright. She knew it would give her the understanding that not everyone was dead, although it felt that way.

But he sat, stone-like, behind his desk. Not because he didn't want to go to Ruth, in fact, he imagined himself doing it. Taking her into his arms and gathering strength from her, the strength he would need to face the regret, the second thoughts, and the visions of Jo's face that he knew would haunt him in the coming days and weeks and months. What stopped him was the feeling that he didn't deserve the comfort Ruth would bring. Harry thought he needed to feel this way. Not having Ruth's arms around him was his penance for being the one who sent young and bright people to their deaths.

Both knew that Jo was the reason they had found each other again so quickly. As if she had taken each by the hand and said softly, "You love each other, don't you?" Jo had been a loyal colleague, of course, but she'd been more than that. She'd stood as a testament that softness could go hand-in-hand with the skills necessary to do the job, that an innate sweetness didn't have to disappear under the ice required by the challenges of being an officer. Jo had embodied all that. But she hadn't survived.

"She saved them all," Harry said, his voice flat. He was speaking so softly that Ruth had trouble making out the words, but she did hear him say, "Ros had to do it. I told her she had no choice..."

And then, Ruth could bear to hear no more. She shook her head slightly, and began to back away. "No..." she said, almost to herself, in disbelief. _Not Jo._ Harry was looking at her, and she nodded to him, as if to say, _Yes, I understand_, but still, she was saying "No..." as she turned to walk out of his office.

She meant to get her purse and coat and go to the tube, to hold out until she could step through the front door to her house and collapse into the tears that were coming. But she only made it a few feet before they came flooding out. Leaning against the wall outside Harry's office, Ruth realised that she couldn't leave him. There was a wall between them, but they still touched. It was as they had always been on the Grid, separate, but together.

Harry heard Ruth sobbing and envied her emotion. He wished he could do the same, to let go into the unfathomable sadness he felt. _Not Jo_. But he knew that those in shock and horror around him needed him to remain at the centre, strong and unchangeable. So he sat behind his desk, listening to Ruth cry, and he compartmentalised. In his mind, he placed Jo gently with Adam, and Zaf, and Ben, and Fiona, and Danny. He tried to let her go, and he wished her well. He hoped her journey had a measure of peace to it. And he began to think of how he would tell her parents.

On the other side of the wall, Ruth held her face in her hands as the tears ran through her fingers and fell to the floor. She realised now that her two years away hadn't so much dulled her edge, as it had allowed her to forget what really happened in the world. And through her pain, Ruth felt the beginnings of an unnamed anger forming.

She knew it wasn't fair to be angry with Harry, but it started as a tiny ball in her chest and began to grow. Her silent question to him – _Do you know what you've done?_ – had gone unanswered, but now, through her tears, her mind screamed out _Why Jo?_, and the reply was that Harry had calculated one life against many. He had ordered her into that lift like a lamb to the slaughter, with no defences, no chance, and little hope. Jo had saved them all, but she couldn't save herself, and as the steel began to form around Ruth's heart, she feared that Harry Pearce might be a cold bastard after all.

Ruth's tears slowed and stopped, overtaken by the hard edge of her anger. She pushed herself away from the wall and stood straight, breathing deeply. It was Monday, the first day of her new job with MI5, and all she wanted to do was to run away. She shook her head, thinking_, It's too much, too soon._ She remembered Harry telling her that people would understand. She began to rationalise that this world had gone on without her for two years, and it could go on a bit longer whilst she took the time to think.

Ruth knew she was being a coward, but it was all she felt capable of – and really, what good had she been? She'd allowed herself to feel pride in her analysis of the situation, she'd felt the warmth of Harry's praise, and she'd begun to think foolishly that she had answers to the impossible questions this job posed. Now, as she stared at the wall in front of her, Ruth knew there were no answers. There hadn't been two years ago, and there weren't now.

All it took was one step to the side, and Ruth was back in Harry's doorway. He was still staring straight ahead, his face an unreadable mask. Ruth had the sound of the residual tears in her voice, and her eyes were red-rimmed, but she pulled herself up to her full height and said, "I'm going."

Harry turned and looked at her and his heart filled so completely that it broke down the barriers he'd spent the last few minutes erecting. Now he stood, not knowing what he was going to do, but feeling a need to move closer to her. Ruth put her hand up, meaning to hold him where he was, but she stood rooted in the doorway, unable to move. When he finally reached her, Ruth's hand fell ineffectually to her side, and suddenly she was in his arms.

Ruth sighed and the tears began again, coming from deep within her. They were tears for Jo, certainly, but also for Adam and Zaf, who had died while she was gone. This was what she'd wanted to do as she'd stood stroking Danny's head - to fall into Harry's arms, for them to comfort each other in their shared pain. Now Harry's voice was soft in her ear, his hand stroking her hair, his own chest shuddering as hers was. If someone had come around the corner they might have seen them, but their place in the doorway was all but hidden from the Grid. They stood that way for a long time, until Ruth's tears stopped, and Harry's breathing slowed. It was the first time they'd truly allowed themselves to grieve together.

But as Ruth came slowly back to herself, she realised that it didn't change how she was feeling. Pulling away slightly, she ran her fingers absent-mindedly down the fabric of Harry's tie, but her voice was firm. "I have to go."

"Let me come with you." He said it without thinking.

Ruth looked up sharply. Her eyes were still slightly blurred with tears, but she could see that it was what he wanted. For a moment, she thought of saying, _Yes, let's just leave_. But then she thought of Ros, probably on her way back to the Grid, of Jo's family, needing to be notified, of reports to be filed, phone calls to be made, of Jo's body ...

"You can't," Ruth said, with a finality that felt to Harry as if she had physically pushed him away. In fact, she did step back and fold her arms in front of her. It was a challenge of sorts, born of the anger that was beginning to return to her eyes, but they both knew it was an empty challenge. Ruth understood the duties that lay in front of him, and she wanted him to fulfil them, to honour Jo. It was their ever-present impossible situation, and both knew it.

Harry's eyes grew soft, and he whispered, "When you say you have to go ..."

She finished his question, "... What do I mean?" She shook her head, and looked down at the floor. "I'm not sure. Perhaps it was too soon."

"You're angry with me again," he said. It was a statement of fact, and was as clear to him as it had been after George was killed. "I sent Jo in there..." His voice held the guilt he felt.

"Yes, without backup..." Now Ruth looked up, her eyes clearing, colder, but she couldn't go further. She had no wish to hurt Harry, and she could see that her words had cut him deeply. Shaking her head, she softened, and said, "I don't pretend to know how I would make the decisions you have to make, Harry. But this one ... this one ... " Ruth felt the tears starting again, and the desire to escape became overwhelming.

Again, she said, "I have to go." She began to back up into the hallway.

Harry wanted to ask where, and for how long, but he held his tongue. Ruth couldn't bear the pain in his eyes, not on top of everything else, so she stepped back toward him and took his hand in hers. "I feel like a coward, Harry, but I just don't have the strength to do this right now, not after ... George, and everything that's happened ..." She stroked his hand, keeping her eyes down, and suddenly it came to her. "I've ... I've been thinking quite a lot of Isabelle."

Ruth looked up at him, her eyes turning just slightly brighter. "I think I'd like to go to Paris. Just for a couple of days, perhaps a week." Now her mind was working, thinking it through. "The girls, will you...?"

Harry nodded, "Of course."

Before she knew what she was doing, Ruth brought Harry's hand to her lips and kissed it, gently. "I'm sorry, Harry. I thought I was stronger."

As she let him go and started back into the hall, Harry said, "Ruth?"

She turned. "Yes?"

"You will come back, won't you?"

He saw the tears spring to her eyes again, as she smiled sadly.

"Yes," Ruth said softly, and then she was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-NINE**

* * *

Ruth was utterly at a loss as to what she hoped to accomplish in Paris, but she was being drawn there to Isabelle, and she chose not to fight it. Ruth's confusion existed on so many levels that she was having a hard time even categorising it. Just two days ago, she'd felt ready to start back on the Grid, and had spent her first day feeling good about her contribution to the team and about how quickly she'd meshed back into the work. But when Harry said, "We've lost Jo," Ruth felt herself falling down the rabbit hole again, unsure, lost, and compelled to escape.

As she'd cried outside Harry's office, Ruth realised that she still had a crushing sense of grief about Adam and Zaf, and an equally oppressive sense of guilt about George, Nico and Christina. It became apparent to her that she hadn't worked through those feelings properly, and Jo's death had brought them all to the surface again.

When Ruth arrived home, she poured herself an uncommonly large whisky, a brand she'd stocked two years ago for Harry. She sat on the couch and let the rich, amber liquid burn down her throat as she listened to Haydn's _88__th__ Symphony_. After the first whisky, she poured a second, and transitioned to Tchaikovsky's _Serenade for Strings_, which usually helped her make sense of the world, but tonight, the music seemed only to make her sad.

Ruth sat looking at the empty fireplace, and hoped that Harry would leave her alone for the night, although she knew that if he called, she wouldn't be able to resist answering. She found herself watching her mobile as it sat on the table in front of her – wanting keenly to have the comfort of his voice, but hoping she could find some resolution without him. Unfortunately, the whisky hadn't helped her find resolve, it had simply numbed and confused her more.

Ruth loved Harry so deeply, but somehow, her anger about George, which she thought she'd put behind her, had been rekindled by Jo's death. And at the centre of that anger was Harry, making the decisions that put the people she loved in harm's way. Under the influence of the whisky and Tchaikovsky's strings, she found herself on both sides of the argument, defending and attacking, until she felt drained and exhausted.

Harry didn't call, and at nearly two in the morning, after a haphazard dinner of tomatoes, cheese and toast, and a tearful end to the _Serenade_, Ruth finally walked silently up her stairs to bed. She fell asleep feeling both grateful and wretched that she hadn't heard from him. The only thing Ruth knew for certain was that Harry couldn't win with her right now, and she loved him enough to be glad for him that he'd stayed away.

Ruth woke early with a throbbing head, and made her train and hotel reservations before she could change her mind. She had decided to surprise Isabelle toward the end of her day at _l'Alcove_, so her plan was to take the early afternoon train. She'd made a reservation for three nights at the _Hotel Caron_, just a short way from the Place des Vosges. At first, she'd thought of going to the _Hotel Britannique_, but she lost her nerve just before reserving, and decided to stay somewhere with fewer memories.

Ruth allowed herself the indulgence of calling _l'Alcove_ to be certain Isabelle would be there when she arrived – and she was fully planning to hang up as soon as she heard her voice. But when Isabelle answered, Ruth's heart leapt. She found tears coming to her eyes, and suddenly the idea of a surprise felt adolescent and unnecessary. Ruth answered Isabelle with a voice full of emotion. "It's me. Sophie."

The flood of joy on the other end of the line was as satisfying as it could possibly be, "Sophie! Where are you?"

"I'm in London," Ruth answered.

"Are you alright? You're safe? I received your note. I've thought of you so often!"

"Yes," Ruth said, laughing with the delight of hearing her friend's voice again. "Everything is fine." But Isabelle heard the subtleties in the voice on the other end of the line. Everything clearly wasn't fine, and in her usual way of understanding, Isabelle grew quieter.

"You're so close, my dear. Might I see you sometime soon? Shall I come to London?"

Even with her aching head, Ruth felt some of the weight of yesterday begin to fall away. _This is the right thing to do_. "I'm coming on the afternoon train to see you, Isabelle. I'll come directly to _l'Alcove_."

"Oh, that's wonderful! Will you stay the night? Isabelle asked.

"I'm planning to stay at the _Caron_."

"Would you like to stay with me, my dear Sophie?" To the pause on the other end of the line, Isabelle said, more softly, "Only if you wish it."

Ruth didn't know what she wished, but she felt so unsure of her state of mind that she wanted to hold open the possibility of being entirely on her own, should she need the solitude. "Thank you, Isabelle. That's a lovely offer. Do you mind if we talk about it when I get there?"

"No, not at all ... " Isabelle started to say _Sophie_ again, but she stopped herself, and then said, gently, "May I know your real name now, my dear? Are you able to tell me?"

Ruth smiled. She felt something akin to a chill go down her back as she said what she'd longed to say so many times to Isabelle. "Ruth. My name is Ruth."

"Ruth." Isabelle paused for a moment, and then said, "It's a lovely name. It suits you beautifully. I'll have the kettle on, my dear Ruth."

"_A bientôt, ma chère Isabelle."_

Ruth sat for a long time after she clicked off her mobile. _Ruth. My name is Ruth_. Such simple words, but she let them wash over her, and felt the peace that came with telling the truth again.

* * *

Harry could have kicked himself. He hadn't kept a key to Ruth's house, and now he was wishing strongly that he had. He'd given the only key to Ruth on purpose, as a matter of honour, out of respect for her privacy. Of course he knew every possible way to break into a house, and he'd had to find his way into Ruth's one day last year, when he'd left her key behind. But things were as different now as they could be, and Harry felt it would be wrong to force the lock, even to feed the girls, as she'd requested.

The need to call Ruth for the key was warring with his promise to himself that he would let her go to Paris without contacting her. Harry felt he understood Ruth, and he thought that the more he grasped at her, the longer it would take for her to find her way back to him. But he didn't see how it could be helped. Right now, he was wishing he'd thought of it before she'd left the Grid yesterday, but he allowed that he hadn't been thinking very clearly at that point in time.

Harry looked out to the Grid, to Jo's empty desk. Soon after Ruth left, he'd spoken with Mrs Portman - unlike most MI5 parents, she knew what her daughter did for a living. Jo had warned her mother when there was fear that the Thames Barrier would be blown, and after the crisis was averted they'd had to go through the process of having Mrs Portman vetted and arranging for her to sign the OSA.

So Harry's call to Jo's mother was a less confusing call than most, but no easier. Harry waited patiently as she railed at the Services, and cried, and told him how their hopes and dreams were tied up in their little girl, how she was really going to be a journalist, and how that was all over now. Primarily, Harry just listened, but in the end, he told Jo's mother that her daughter's sacrifice had saved dozens of lives. Mrs Portman's anger had subsided somewhat, and then she'd murmured those unthinkable words, "Thank you."

First thing in the morning, Harry had gotten a call from Sir Robin Ashenden asking about the officer who had laid down her life for them. Not only had Jo saved his estate, but Sir Robin had been the one on trial when she'd come into the room from the lift, and he knew that Lambert was moments from pulling the trigger of the gun he had at his head. Ashenden told Harry that he wanted to do something to show his appreciation, and Harry had made a suggestion he thought Jo would like.

Harry didn't know the particulars of what Sir Robin had decided to do, but before the day was out, plans were being drawn up for a number of new and badly-needed buildings to house the abused women who made their way to the Rape Crisis Centres across the UK. The donor was listed as anonymous, but from that day forward each of the dormitories was affectionately known as "Jo's House."

Harry wanted so much to talk to someone about Jo. He'd thought of Ros, but understandably, Ros was taking a couple of days off from the Grid. If Harry had guilt about Jo's death, and he did, he tried to imagine how Ros was feeling. He'd thought of calling and going over to talk to her, but he remembered the night he'd done the same after Adam had died. Ros had said, "Go home, Harry. We're not doing each other any good." He had no reason to believe this day would be any different. Ros had her own way of dealing with grief, and Harry decided to leave her in peace.

Harry thought of talking to Malcolm, but then he quickly decided against it. He would certainly call Malcolm to let him know, but he wouldn't expect to be able to lean on him. This was precisely why Malcolm had left the Service - Jo's death would be hard enough for him to take, without Harry looking for some kind of comfort, or worse yet, absolution, from his old friend.

Really, the only person Harry wanted to talk to was Ruth. He remembered the discussion they'd had just the other day over breakfast, and he realised that he was missing being able to talk to his friend. He knew that Ruth would have a unique perspective, and he wished he could know what it would have been, under different circumstances. If Jo hadn't been Ruth's friend, if it hadn't been so soon after George's death, if Ruth weren't holding Harry responsible for sending Jo into an impossible situation - Harry thought there were too many _ifs_ for anything remotely neutral to come of a discussion with Ruth, but still, he longed for it.

Leaning back in his chair, Harry loosened his tie a bit. He had no meetings today, except for one with the Home Secretary late in the afternoon to discuss the technical aspects of Lambert's unbreakable grip on the internet during the trials yesterday. Harry had spent part of the morning listening to Tariq's explanation of what had happened, and the headache it had given him was still evident, despite taking three paracetemol over two hours ago.

He'd thought fleetingly of asking Tariq to accompany him for his meeting with Blake, but then thought better of it. Not because he had any worries about how Tariq would acquit himself – in fact, Harry was increasingly impressed with the young man's skills – but because he thought two non-computer minds might find it easier to discuss possible solutions, should it happen again. Tariq had made it clear that there was really nothing technical that MI5 could have done to loosen Lambert's stranglehold on the web, and Harry could relay that message to the Home Secretary just as easily, if not easier, than Tariq.

Harry leant forward and looked again at his mobile. He had to call Ruth, and soon – in fact, he was afraid he may have already missed her. He hoped it would be a case of her telling him she would leave a key under the mat, but in his heart, he knew there was little chance of that.

Spies didn't leave keys under their mats, or in faux rocks in the garden, or in the mailbox. Nothing was ever that simple – or that easy – with spooks.

* * *

Ruth was doing relatively well until she pulled the carry-all down from the top shelf where she'd quickly stashed it to unpack later. She hadn't felt able to open it at the safe house either – and now, as she felt the weight of it, Ruth thought the best thing she could do was to throw it straight away into the rubbish. But in the end, she couldn't bear to part with Harry's shirt, or his soap. Before she could stop herself, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding the bag gently in her hands.

She ran her fingers across the well-worn leather of the straps and tried to trace the journey it had taken with her. She'd packed it first for Bath, and she remembered Harry carrying it to the car when they'd left the Windsor Guest House. Just days later, Zaf had brought it to the safe house, before she'd left for Paris. She'd unpacked it in her Paris flat, and then Adam had thrown into it what he could find, before he'd rescued her from the Redbacks in the forest. It had stayed with her during the time on Cyprus, packed for an emergency, until the day she'd left the island. Ruth closed her eyes, holding the handle, and she could still see George carrying it into the Paphos Airport.

She opened her eyes and sighed deeply. _Zaf, Adam, and George_. Of all those who had touched this simple, utilitarian thing, so many were dead. _But not Harry, and not me. Somehow, we've been spared._

Gently, Ruth pulled on the zip and was overwhelmed by the competing odours – the unpleasant mildew of Nico's swim trunks, and the musky scent of Harry's sandalwood soap. The red trunks had been wrapped tightly in the blue towel that Nico had worn round his shoulders as they fled Cyprus, and except for a brief moment when Jo had gone through the bag, they hadn't seen the light of day since.

_Jo._ She too, had touched it. _Dead. All dead_. Reverently, Ruth laid her hands on the outside of the carry-all, and she closed her eyes again, remembering a study of "chi," and the Chinese belief that a natural energy flows through all things, remaining in objects after they're touched. _Zaf, Adam, George and Jo._ They were all here.

Ruth felt the tears starting, and refused to give in to them. She stood quickly and took the carry-all to the washing machine. Holding it by its corners, she emptied the bag's contents onto the floor, shaking it until everything lay in a pile at her feet. Harry's white shirt had an arm across George's sage green one in a kind of chilling embrace, and she quickly moved them into the washer, along with her own clothes and Nico's towel. She had enough presence of mind to hold out the red swim trunks, washing them quickly in the sink by hand and hanging them over the edge to dry. She was so tired that it hadn't occurred to her that George's shirt and Nico's swim trunks had no place in her life now.

Cradling Harry's soap in her cupped hands, Ruth leant down and breathed in deeply. The scent would always be Harry to her. She set the soap gently on the worktop, and turned to take the carry-all outside to air on the porch. But as she did, something clattered out of a pocket and on to the floor. The keys to the car, the one she'd driven like a madwoman in order to escape Mani's men. The one she assumed still sat at Paphos Airport in the car park, unless Christina had somehow retrieved it.

For a moment, she held the keys in her hands, and named them all. The car key, the key to the mountain house, the key that opened the back shed that held her gardening tools but was never locked. The key to her desk drawer where she'd kept her financial papers, the key to the side door of the Polis Chrysochous Hospital & Rural Health Centre that she'd always meant to return.

Ruth moved the keys from one hand to the other, listening to the metallic sound they made. It was another life, and another place. How important these had been to her, and how irrelevant the passage of time had rendered them. She thought of the one key that mattered to her now. The key to her London house ... the only key she had.

Until just this moment, she hadn't thought how Harry would get in to care for the girls. Ruth sighed and grimaced, and went to find her phone. Confused and sleep deprived, with an aching head – and it looked as if she might be seeing Harry today after all.

* * *

Suddenly, Harry saw the light glow from his mobile, just before he heard it ring. In wonder, he smiled, as he read the name on the screen. _Ruth_.

"Ruth, I was just about to ring you." He spoke warmly, and with gratitude that he hadn't been forced to make the first move after saying goodbye yesterday.

"About the key?" she said. "I wondered if you'd kept a spare, but then, I thought you might not have..." Her voice trailed off, and Harry could hear that she was distracted. In fact, Ruth realised that she'd called him without thinking through what she was going to say, or even how to solve the problem that had just presented itself.

"I didn't," Harry said. "I didn't think I should." There was so much more beneath that statement, but Harry decided to leave it at that. "Shall I come and pick it up?" He looked quickly at his watch. It was only 10:30 in the morning. "You're taking the train?"

"No," Ruth said quickly, answering his first question. The last thing she wanted was to have Harry at her house right now. She was feeling much more fragile than she'd been the last time he'd sat in her kitchen, eating breakfast. Today, every time she thought of Jo, Ruth felt a sharp pain, and she knew she would end up in his arms if he were here.

Precisely because she needed badly to have him hold her, Ruth had to put some distance between them. It wouldn't solve anything if she went back to her old pattern of seeking comfort from Harry. She was too confused, too angry, too grief-stricken, to make any sense of her love for him right now.

Understandably, Harry misunderstood why she'd said no. "You're _not_ taking the train?"

Ruth sounded slightly impatient, because she knew she wasn't making herself clear. "Yes, I'm taking the afternoon train - No, I don't want you to come and pick up the key. I'll bring it to you." Ruth was beginning to feel sorry that she'd had so much whisky last night, and she wondered idly how Harry managed to drink the stuff. "I'll meet you in front of Thames House? I don't want to come up, Harry. What's your schedule today?"

"Only a late afternoon meeting at Whitehall. Until then, I'm here."

"I'll ring you when I'm there? Do you mind coming down to get it?" Ruth thought she'd be safe on the busy pavement in front of the building.

"No, I don't mind. I'll wait for your call." Harry heard the cold, clipped tone of her voice as she said a quick thank you and then rang off.

_She's still angry_, he thought, and he sighed as he clicked off his mobile.

Harry leant back in his chair again, and he had to admit he wondered if it would ever end. People would keep dying, and as long as he sat behind this desk, their deaths could be perceived to be his fault. Harry had spent quite a while thinking it through this morning, and he realised that if he had to make the decision to send Jo in again, he would do the same thing. He wasn't certain that Ruth understood that -he couldn't do this job if he continually second-guessed himself. If he hadn't ordered Jo into that lift, it's likely that there would be many more funerals being planned today.

It was one of the reasons Harry had found it easier to live his life alone - the only voice he had to listen to was that of his own conscience. As he tapped his pen on the side of his desk, Harry realised that he had almost done something different, just by virtue of the fact that Ruth was beside him. Her presence had altered how he saw himself, made him wonder if he'd made the right decision, because he'd worried that she would judge him. And Harry knew that was a slippery slope, especially when life-and-death decisions had to be made so quickly.

_But Christ, I love her_, he thought. Harry wanted to be worthy of her good opinion, but he also had to listen to his own mind. He needed to talk about this with Ruth, to be sure she understood. And, not for the first time, Harry weighed the idea that it might not be possible for him to have both Ruth, his love, and Ruth, his analyst. Perhaps she did need to be elsewhere in the Services – not back to GCHQ, but perhaps at Six, or even the Home Office, where they wouldn't be watching each other's every move.

But in the same way he was loathe to deprive himself of Ruth's love, Harry didn't want the Grid to be without her skills. She was the best he'd ever seen. And did he have the right to keep her from work at which she excelled, and so clearly loved?

Harry needed to talk to Ruth. Badly. He could wait, he supposed, until she came back from Paris. But he didn't want to wait.

* * *

Ruth paused in the garden near Lambeth Palace and looked across the river. She had stood outside Thames House for just a moment and had suddenly panicked. All she'd had to do was open her mobile and call Harry - he would emerge from the white stone doorway and stride toward her with his head at a slight tilt, and a half-smile on his face. She would hold out the key and he would take it, then Ruth would say goodbye, pick up her carry-all and catch a taxi to St. Pancras. She would be much too early, but that would be alright. She could read her book and wait the three-and-a-half hours for her train. But she couldn't seem to call him, and that had Ruth in a state of puzzled incredulity.

She'd sat now on a bench in the garden for nearly half an hour trying to sort out what had her so afraid, and the only thing that came to her mind was that she wasn't ready to see Harry of the Grid - the Harry who had said_ I won't tell you_ to Mani, the one who had sent Zaf to Tehran, the one who had tasked Adam with disposing of the bomb. And she definitely didn't want to see the Harry who had ordered Jo to die. In Ruth's current state of mental exhaustion and confusion, she wanted to give her key to Henry James Pearce instead. Ruth was grateful that she wasn't too far from sanity to know that sounded vaguely insane.

So Ruth understood that she would either have to call him and ask him to miraculously transform into Will Arden – the one who lay sprawled on the grass with her in Bath, the one who sat across from her at dinner, and who wore the terrycloth robe on the balcony in Calais – or she would have to go away for just a bit and find out just exactly where she'd left her reason.

Ruth opted for the latter, and so she started walking toward the Eye, not because it was a destination, but because, even in her panic, she could easily keep it in her sights and know where she was. And when she saw a clipper on the river that was disgorging passengers and taking on new ones, Ruth ran for the ramp, handing over her money and walking aboard just in time. She did have three-and-a-half hours, after all.

As the boat pulled away from the dock, Ruth had the most remarkable double-deja vu – of leaving Harry on her way to Paris, and then leaving him in Dover on her way to Calais. Another boat, another trip across the water, another time of watching the place where Harry was, as it got smaller and more distant.

Only this time, as her panic subsided, Ruth felt so silly and untethered that she almost had to laugh. As the buildings of London glided by, she rested her elbows on the railing and wondered when she had completely lost her mind. She hoped she could blame it on her grief about Jo, last night's whisky and her lack of sleep, but she was afraid she was merely rationalising.

The simple act of exchanging a key with the man she had known and loved for nearly six years was beyond her – she hadn't been capable of seeing him in his work clothes, was that it? And now Ruth did laugh, to the considerable consternation of the young couple standing next to her on the rail. They shared a look and then moved discreetly away. Ruth couldn't say she blamed them.

When the clipper reached the end of the line in Greenwich, Ruth was forced to disembark. She was waiting in line for the return trip when her mobile rang. She looked at the screen and saw that it was Harry, so she stepped out of line, and answered.

"Hello." Harry sounded unsure, which actually helped Ruth's confidence a bit. "Where are you, Ruth?"

She thought about lying to him, but the question caught her off guard, so she simply told the truth. "I'm in Greenwich, at the end of the clipper line. Then she said, embarrassed, "Don't ask..."

Surprisingly, Harry said, "That's good. Can you stay there? I'll meet you." Then he said, softly, "There's a bench, actually..."

Ruth smiled. "I know where it is." The bench across from Greenwich was a favourite meeting place for some officers at MI5, as it was very secluded. One could sit on that bench for an hour at a time and not see another living soul, so it was perfect for a meeting with an asset.

"I need to talk to you, Ruth. About Jo, but also about something else."

Ruth thought that a statement like that would make her nervous, but gradually, she felt the panic subside in her chest. On the other end of the phone, she could hear the voice of the man she loved beyond all others. And this time, it was Henry James Pearce's voice. But Ruth still felt strangely detached, and she was still angry. Harry wanted to talk to her about Jo, and she thought that was a good idea. Perhaps he could explain to her why her friend, a young, dedicated and passionate officer, was now dead.

Ruth assumed the "something else" was about their relationship. She'd asked Harry to give her time, and he'd been patient. The truth was that Ruth was going to Paris to think and to make decisions. She wanted those decisions to be informed. So even though she felt slightly scattered, she wanted to hear what he had to say. "Alright," Ruth said, finally.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Harry said, and he rang off.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TEN**

* * *

Harry stood for just a moment, looking at Ruth in silhouette. She sat motionless, and he found himself remembering the bench on the Embankment, the one in Henley-on-Thames, and also the one on the Passarelle des Arts in Paris right after he'd proposed. He allowed himself a sad smile, wondering what kind of memory this bench would offer in days to come.

He still had no clear idea of what he would say to Ruth, but he knew he wanted to talk about Jo, and he hoped to get a sense of Ruth's desire to be on the Grid. She might very well tell him she didn't feel up to the work anymore, and then at least he could allow his restless mind some peace.

Harry walked forward, and he could hear his own footsteps echoing on the cement surface, so he knew that Ruth must be hearing his approach, but she didn't turn. She sat stone-still, facing forward. Even when he sat down quietly next to her, she kept her eyes on the water. He stayed silent until she looked at him and said, "Hello, Harry." He thought she sounded cold and heartsick, and Harry wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms - but he could feel the fragility of the wall she'd built around herself, and he loved her too much to step through it.

She looked down at her coat pocket and reached inside, and then put her hand out. In it was the house key he'd so recently given her, except that now it was on a ring with a small photo frame that held pictures of Phoebe and Fidget. He reached over and took it, and their hands touched. He lingered there for just a moment, and was reminded of the bus, but this time, she pulled away quickly. Harry looked at the photos and smiled. He shook his head in wonder and said softly, "I miss those girls."

Finally, Ruth turned and looked at him. "Thank you," she said, without an abundance of warmth, but with genuine gratitude. "You can take them to your house, if you'd like. I'm not certain how long I'll be." Harry could see that her eyes were red, and that the soft skin below them was just a shade darker than usual. She looked pale, and tired, and the frown between her brows told him that she had a headache. Ruth saw him peering at her, and became self-conscious, so she turned back toward the water.

She spoke almost absent-mindedly. "I don't know what I expect to find in Paris, but I feel I need to get away from here for a while." Harry wanted to know everything she was feeling, so he thought he'd simply let her talk for as long as she wanted. To make it easier, he did as she did, and looked out at the water. Finally, Ruth said, "I can't make sense of Jo's death, Harry. Not that any death makes sense, but especially hers. She was so young, such a good person. We were becoming true friends." Ruth released a ragged sigh.

"Ashenden called me this morning," Harry said simply. "He wanted to do something to show his appreciation to Jo's family. He was thinking about some sort of memorial to the Services, but I don't think Jo would have liked that." Harry's voice grew softer, as Ruth turned to listen. "So I told him she'd always cared deeply about women who'd been assaulted ..." Harry turned to Ruth, knowing that he didn't need to be cautious when he spoke with her, so he said the word, with all the emotion he was feeling, "... women who'd been raped."

"And what did Sir Robin say?"

"He said he understood, and that he would find out where the greatest need was, and fill it." Harry shrugged slightly, and gave Ruth a half-smile. "I'd like to think he's a changed man, and that Jo was a part of that, but time will tell."

Ruth's face softened as she looked at him. "That was a good choice, Harry. I think that's what Jo would have wanted." Turning back to the water, Ruth said, "She never really got over it, you know? What happened with the Redbacks. We talked a bit about it, because she knew they'd almost taken me, too. But I should have made the time to have a proper talk. We planned to ... but ... I never ..."

Even in profile, Harry could see that Ruth's eyes were glistening. He wanted to reach out to her, but he kept his hands folded in his lap. "She cared so much for you, Ruth. I never got the feeling that she wanted more than you gave to her." He paused for a moment, and then went on. "Adam said she was like a broken bird. Even Jo had described herself that way to him. Perhaps she's found some peace, now."

Ruth kept her eyes forward, and Harry realised that what he'd just said may have sounded like some sort of rationalisation for his having sent her into such a dangerous situation. And as Ruth didn't answer, he sighed and looked back out at the water. "At least that's what I tell myself."

Her anger was still under the surface, but Ruth felt Harry's pain, and couldn't let it just hang there between them. "We both have regrets, Harry. I suppose it's easier to think she's in a better place. I like to think that, too. I think she was so torn about it, but underneath it all, she did love the work." After a moment, Ruth said, "She convinced me to come back."

Harry looked back at Ruth. He wished he knew what to say to comfort her, but all he could do was acknowledge how she was feeling. "I know."

"She really believed in it. What we're doing." Ruth surprised herself with the 'we'. _I must not be gone yet_, she thought, and then she continued, "More than any of us."

"More than you?" Harry asked softly. He'd seen the passion in Ruth's eyes all day yesterday, before things had gone so horribly wrong. After Mickelson had been killed, Ruth had been shocked, but it seemed only to increase her desire to take Lambert down. And now Harry needed to know if that passion was still there.

Ruth turned and looked at Harry, hoping to see if his question was genuine. She wasn't sure she believed in any of it now, and she wanted to see the conviction that kept Harry coming back to the Grid day after day. But as she looked at him, she felt nothing, so she turned away again.

"Was she the only reason you returned?" Ruth looked back sharply at Harry. She should have known what he was asking, but she was lost in trying to understand why it seemed impossible for her feel anything at the moment. Her return to the Grid had meant so many things just twenty-four hours ago – she'd come back not just because of her love of the work, but also in an attempt to reclaim herself, the Ruth she'd known before her exile. Yesterday, she'd found that Ruth, but now, she felt she'd lost her again.

"What do you mean?" It was an honest question, but as soon as she saw Harry's eyes, she knew he was asking if she'd come back for him. She couldn't answer that question yet, because she didn't know. She knew she still loved him, but the dilemma of separating her love for Harry and her work on the Grid was the primary reason she was going to Paris.

She was just realising all of this and thinking it through, when Harry gave up on the answer to his question. He sighed, and looked back out at the water. "You know what I mean."

After nearly a full minute of silence, Ruth said, "Wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about?" Harry could hear that she'd steeled herself again, and he felt the exhaustion under her words. He was prepared to leave it at this if that was what she wanted. He could simply tell her to have a good trip, and to call him when she got back - but he wanted so much to talk to her about where they stood.

As he'd driven here to meet her, Harry had wondered what on earth she was doing at the end of the clipper line. He'd not wanted to ask, because, first of all, she'd said not to, but also, there were too many other questions that were more important. But now, he wondered again, and the answer that came to him was that consciously or subconsciously, Ruth wanted to talk. That there was something they needed to say to each other before she left.

The "something" he wanted to talk to her about was where they were headed, but Harry opted for the safe answer to her question. "I asked you here today because I needed to talk about Jo to someone."

"B-But there was something else too." There it was, the question he'd hoped she would ask. She _did_ want to talk about more than keys, and the girls, and the loss of a friend. So Harry opened the door, and invited her into the conversation he wanted so much to have.

"There'll always be something else, Ruth."

For a moment longer, they gazed at the grey-blue of the water without talking, and then Ruth turned to him again. She knew there were so many questions he wanted to ask, and the restraint he was showing was an act of love. He was clearly grieving over Jo, just as she was, and it opened her heart to him. Their hands were only inches apart on the bench, and, on an impulse, she reached over and put her hand over his.

Speaking softly, Ruth said, "Harry, I don't know what I want. I thought I did, but I may have expected too much of myself to jump back in so quickly. Losing Jo seems to have brought up everyone else I've lost. They're all standing around me, demanding that I face them. I can't do that here. I need to get away from the Grid, from London, from ..."

"... From me." He said it evenly, and without blame. Harry turned his hand over and let his fingers wrap around hers lightly.

Ruth allowed a sad smile to curl the corners of her lips. He understood. He always understood. "Yes, away from you. You confuse me."

"I love you, Ruth." He hadn't meant to say it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. And suddenly, Harry realised that those simple words were what he had come to this bench to say. He still had so many questions, but they all felt like they existed on the surface of what was most important. He loved her, and before she left again he'd needed to tell her.

Ruth's eyes softened, and he saw them begin to shine with the tears that collected there. From the moment she'd set foot back in England, they'd shared the understanding of the love that still existed between them, but they hadn't said it. They'd seen it in each other's eyes as Mani had taunted them, and every day since. They'd held each other, and the love they felt had passed between them as a tangible thing, but it hadn't been spoken.

On an exhale that was a combination of deep feeling, relief, and confusion, Ruth said gently, "I know. I love you, too, Harry. I've never stopped ..."

Harry moved his hand from Ruth's and rested it tenderly on her cheek. She laid her hand over his, and they began to move closer, but Ruth blinked, and pulled back, saying, "No. This is what I can't do." She took his hand and moved it back down to the bench between them, and folded her hands in her lap. "It's too easy to push it all aside and forget for awhile. I've done that too much, Harry. You make me forget ... but it doesn't go away ..."

"How can I help you? What can I do?" Harry was serious, but his eyes sparkled with the relief of the words he'd just spoken and the joy of hearing Ruth say them back. That, and the fact that he was suddenly aware of the constant absurdity of their situation. _Two people who love each other. Why is this always so hard?_

Ruth let a wry laugh escape. "I don't even know what I'm going to do for myself," she said, sighing. "I'm just following my instincts, and they're telling me I need some distance from the work and from you ..." Ruth shook her head, "Can you believe that after all this time away from you, wishing every night that I could be with you, loving you and missing you so terribly ... that what my heart is telling me is to get away from you again?" She turned to him, her eyes wide, "I can't understand it, why should you?"

Harry didn't want to say the words, but he loved her too much not to. They came out softly, and more plaintively than he expected. "Are you better off without me? Because if that's what you want, if that's what would give you peace... I'll ... I'll let go."

She turned quickly to him and said, fervently, "It's _not_ what I want." It was taking all her strength not to move across the inches that separated them and lean into him. It's what they both wanted, but she knew where it would lead. She didn't want to travel that road again until her head was clear, so she stayed where she was and tried again to make sense of what she was feeling.

"Harry, do you remember when you talked about 'pushing the river'?" Harry remembered it well, and nodded. Ruth continued, "Is that what we're doing? Why can't the world just leave us in peace?" She looked back out at the water, and spoke almost to herself, just above a whisper, "Just let us be Henry James Pearce and Ruth Elizabeth Evershed..."

Harry reached out and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. His voice was nearly as soft as hers. "Because those two people are only a part of who we are." He allowed his fingers to move to her neck and touch the lock of hair that rested there. "Was it really enough for you, at the hospital, or the bookshop?"

She turned to him and gave him a sad smile. She wanted to say it was, but instead, she simply shook her head and looked down at her hands. Miserably, she said, "Are we hopeless, Harry?"

"No," he said quickly. Then he smiled, and said, "But we are a challenge, my Ruth." At that she turned to him again, sighing into the endearment that she so loved. And she realised that his fingers were in a very familiar place, and touching a spot on her neck that brought back lovely memories.

Ruth looked at Harry from under her lashes and asked, "Do you still have it? It wasn't with my things. Was it lost?"

Harry smiled at her. "I have it. And your ring, my love." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Whenever you want them."

Ruth smiled back and said, "Not yet. Perhaps when I come back. It's enough to know you have them, and they're safe."

For a long moment they gazed at each other, lost in the memories that came with those two simple pieces of jewellery. In fact, Ruth was so drawn to his eyes that she very nearly moved toward Harry for the kiss that she could see he wanted so much. She wanted it too, and it was for that reason that she took his hand again, and set it down gently on the bench between them. Firmly and clearly, she said, "Not yet, Harry."

Harry felt a door close, and he released the breath that he'd been holding for the last few minutes. _Not yet_. But she had said she loved him, although he'd already known it. And he had said what he needed to say to her. Now, he would wait. He knew now that it wasn't an issue of how she felt, it was an issue of whether she could live with how she felt, and Harry was determined he would give her the room to find that out for herself.

He was glad she was going to see Isabelle. She was a woman with a very clear sense of the ways of the world, and she loved Ruth. Whatever Ruth decided, Harry wanted it to be clear. If she came back and said she could no longer work at MI5, he would find a place for her. If, in addition, too much had happened for her to be with Harry, he would hope to be her friend. If even that were impossible, he would try to hold the time they'd had together in his heart, gently, and with peace. But forgetting her was not an option. Ruth was a part of him, and always would be.

Harry looked over to her and could see that she had regained the armour that she'd let down for a short time. He promised himself he would keep his distance and let her leave with it intact.

"May I take you to the station?" Harry asked. He thought he knew the answer, and that Ruth would be stubborn about it, but he had to make the request.

"No, it'll be harder to leave if you do. I'll say goodbye to you here." She stood and picked up the carry-all that sat at her feet.

Harry stood too, and put his hands in his pockets. He felt the key there, the reason for this meeting. But so much more had been accomplished. And here they were again, standing by the water, saying goodbye. He smiled, and said, "Say hello to Isabelle from James, will you?"

Ruth smiled back at him. "I will."

"She made me promise her something, right after you went to Cyprus."

Ruth tilted her head slightly. "What?"

"I'd gone to tell her that you were safe, but that she needed to let you go, so that you could continue to be safe. She told me that she could see I felt that 'hope was lost', but she also said that she could still see us together. You and I."

Ruth exhaled softly, and looked down at her bag, but Harry could see she had a wistful smile on her face as she spoke, "She would say that."

Harry continued, "She said: 'So when this time is over, this time that you think will last forever, and you're back in each other's arms? You will come see me, and you will tell me your names.'" Harry spoke the words in a soft interpretation of Isabelle's accent, and Ruth smiled at the sound of it.

"Actually, I told her my name on the phone this morning," Ruth said. "It felt so good to do that. Shall I tell her yours, too?"

Harry looked deeply into Ruth's eyes, and spoke in a gentle, low voice. "That's not part of the promise. We need to be, as she says, 'back in each other's arms.'" Harry smiled, and said, "I have the feeling Isabelle is firm on the particulars of her promises."

Ruth gazed back at Harry, and a wave of love moved through her exhaustion and her anger, and instantly dissolved her armour. She dropped her carry-all and closed the short distance between them, and suddenly, her lips were on his.

Harry's lips - soft, yielding, full, and just as she remembered them. Just as she had imagined, night after night on Cyprus, and behind them was the passion of a year's separation. His arms were now tightly around her, his breath ragged, and a sound escaped from his throat, a cry of sorts, but one that melded into a sigh. He couldn't speak, but she heard his voice in her head, saying, softly, _Ruth, my Ruth_.

Harry had just been wondering if he would ever have Ruth in his arms again like this, or if he would have to make do with only memories of the soft feel of her cheek against his, and the warmth of her mouth. He was remembering Isabelle's words, _this time that you think will last forever_, and he was trying to imagine how he would live if that were true. And then, as if he'd dreamed it into reality, Ruth was here, as close as she could possibly be. Harry closed his eyes and could again see the gold light on her skin as she lay in the sheets in Bath, and he could hear her laugh, looking out at the blue waters of the Mediterranean.

They'd last kissed in Dover, in a goodbye. And although this was also meant to be goodbye, Harry and Ruth knew that it was a hello, a rescuing of something they'd feared was lost, a new discovery that when something is deep and genuine, and meant to be, it never really dies.

Ruth knew there were still so many questions to be answered - she had decisions to make, but a possibility opened up for her that they could answer the questions whilst still loving each other. Harry felt the shift in her, and a sort of tranquillity entered his heart, a sense that there were things to work out, but that none of them were a match for them when they stood together.

Ruth pulled away first, reluctantly, but Harry could see that her eyes were no longer tired, and the troubled frown had disappeared. He had no words to describe how he was feeling, so he stayed silent, but she could see the light film of tears in his eyes, and she smiled. She kissed him once more, lightly, and said, "I won't be long, I think. Just a few days." Ruth ran a finger tenderly across his lips, and said softly, "I love you, Harry."

Harry didn't know whether to trust his voice, but it emerged strong and clear. "And I love you, my Ruth."

Ruth stepped back, picked up her carry-all, and began to walk away.

Suddenly, Harry called out, "Ruth!"

She turned, and raised her eyebrows in a question.

"Tell Isabelle hello ... from Harry," he said, smiling.

Ruth waved slightly, saying, "I will!" It might have only been the wind, but Harry thought he heard her laugh as she rounded the corner.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-ELEVEN**

**

* * *

**

The bell rang over the door, and for a split-second, both women stood and remembered. Nearly two years ago, Ruth and Isabelle had stood just this way, as strangers. Now, as they smiled in recognition, they were as dear to each other as they could be, and the time apart had done nothing to lessen their care for each other.

In place of the restraint that had characterised their first meeting, this was a reunion of abandon. Isabelle moved quickly from around the counter and they flew into each other's arms, laughing, both speaking at once. And it wasn't only Ruth who had tears in her eyes.

Isabelle held Ruth at arm's length. "Let me look at you! Brown as a berry!" Isabelle ran her thumb gently across Ruth's cheek, but was dismayed as she saw Ruth's eyes cloud. Isabelle tilted her head and frowned good-naturedly. "Oh, and so quickly I've said the wrong thing! I need to hear your story, my dear, so I'll know what to say and what to keep to myself."

Ruth smiled sadly and shook her head, "No, no, please don't worry. It's just that ... so much has happened since I last saw you..."

Turning the sign in the window and then locking the door, Isabelle took Ruth's arm in hers and led her to the back of the store. "Come with me, dear Ruth." She turned and smiled at the newness of the name. "Ruth," she said again, as if she were trying on a new piece of clothing. "Lovely. But I will miss saying 'Sophie,' as I became very fond of her."

Ruth hugged her arm. "She's still here. I think a part of me will always be Sophie with you."

Before she knew it, Ruth was back in the damask chair. Whilst Isabelle readied the tea, she looked around her. Smiling, she saw that the stacks of books had begun again, but that the computer desk was still neat and tidy. Isabelle saw Ruth's look, and shook her head, laughing softly. "Oh, I know. Is it very bad? I can never tell."

"No," Ruth said, smiling, "Not _very_ bad. Just a bit of organising is all it would take." It was second nature to her, and Ruth thought of getting up to see what was in the short stacks of books, and if she could quickly find places for them, but she resisted. She knew that would be an avoidance technique, another way to keep herself from facing what she had come here to do.

Ruth had spent the two hours on the Eurostar thinking, and trying to do it clearly. She hadn't intended to kiss Harry, but her love for him in that moment had simply made it impossible for her to resist. And it had felt so good, so right, to be back in his arms. The passion was still there, all of it, and although she'd worked for a year at not comparing Harry and George, she no longer had the strength to fight it. Her feelings for George had never come close to what she felt for Harry, and that acknowledgement brought on the guilt afresh. Not only had she led George to his death – she'd done it without even offering him the consolation of her heart.

Tracing her finger on the window of the train, Ruth had forced herself back to the issue at hand. She knew she either needed to put things right with Harry and go back to work on the Grid, or she needed to find another job. It was as simple as that. The fact that she loved both Harry and the job should have made it easier, but, in fact, it seemed to muddy the water. Ruth didn't think of Isabelle as a miracle worker, but she knew that when she'd talked to her in the past, her life had seemed somehow clearer.

So Ruth watched Isabelle prepare the tea and she waited. Isabelle was chattering all the while about how hard it had been to find someone with Ruth's ability to sort through the mess, and how accomplished she was feeling on "that machine." She told Ruth what a help the income from the website had been, and how grateful she was. As she fell into the familiar routine, Ruth found herself breathing easier.

And then she had a china cup in her hands. She watched the steam rise from the rich tea, and traced the light pink of the painted roses with her fingers. It was as if she'd never left. _But I did leave_, Ruth thought. _And yes, so much has happened_. She looked up as Isabelle offered her a plate of galettes, just as she had the first time she'd sat in this chair. Ruth smiled and took one as Isabelle sat across from her.

Ruth sighed. "It's so strange," she said softly. "When I first came here, I was missing England so terribly, and was nostalgic for my life there." She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Now, I find I'm glad to be back in this room, in this chair, with you across from me. I've missed it very much. It's so lovely, and wonderfully familiar." She put her hand out and took Isabelle's hand. "And very precious to me."

"As you are to me, my dear," Isabelle replied. "I've been very worried for you, and I very much appreciated your little notes," she inclined her head toward the computer. "And of course, it meant the world that James came to tell me you were safe."

An involuntary smile started at the corners of Ruth's mouth, and there was a sudden lightness that came into her eyes. Isabelle saw it immediately, and gave a soft laugh in anticipation. "Oh, you're going to tell me, aren't you?" Isabelle's eyes danced. "Your name is Ruth, and James is the 'H' on your beautiful ring..." Isabelle looked at Ruth's hand, and frowned slightly, "...Which you no longer wear."

Ruth didn't speak for a moment. Isabelle looked up and said mischievously, "You'll still make me guess?" She began counting on her fingers, "Harvey? ... Howard? ... erm... Homer?" Ruth laughed and shook her head vigorously. "Henry...?" At Ruth's broad smile, Isabelle laughed, and said, "Henry?"

"Close." Ruth's eyes softened, and she said, tenderly, "Harry."

Isabelle saw Ruth's look and nodded, as she squeezed her hand gently. "Oh, my dear, and you do still love him very much. I'm glad. But you must start from the beginning, and tell me what you can. I'll piece together the rest."

Ruth's smile disappeared as she looked down at her tea, and said softly, "I need help, Isabelle. I can't seem to make sense of it." She looked up. "Yes, I love him very much." The tears sprang to her eyes so quickly, she hardly knew they were there, until she saw Isabelle's face blur in front of her. But through the tears, Ruth laughed, and shook her head, "God, this chair! I can't seem to sit here without falling to pieces!" She wiped her eyes on the napkin Isabelle had given her, and took a deep breath. "I'm fine, really. I'm only having trouble getting my bearings..."

Isabelle said softly, "Well, let's sort it out then, my dear. What can you tell me about where you have been? The Indian man who came here said he thought you were in Greece?" She sat back in her chair, as naturally as if Ruth were going to tell her about a new sewing pattern, or a book she was reading. "That man, he was a very bad man, wasn't he?"

Ruth felt it all come back to her again. _Mani. The laptop. Harry's eyes. Nico. George._ She wondered how she could even begin to relate the story of what had happened in that horrible room, and how she felt about it. Ruth realised that she was bound by the rules of MI5, even more so now than she'd been when she'd first come to Paris in exile. Then, Ruth Evershed hadn't existed. Now, she was a true member of the Grid again.

But she'd come here for a reason, and she needed Isabelle's help. Ruth chose her words carefully. "Not Greece. Cyprus." She took a sip of her tea and set the cup on the table next to her. "I lived there for a year, and returned to England only a few weeks ago. And yes, the man who came here looking for me was an extremely bad man." Isabelle sat silently, and Ruth could see that she wasn't going to comment until she felt Ruth was asking for her thoughts. And suddenly, a question that Ruth hadn't even realised she was going to ask came into her head.

Ruth started tentatively, not certain how to phrase it. "Isabelle, you said that when you and Pierre were separated for a year, that you never wanted another person." Ruth paused, and again felt the guilt wash over her. Not only the guilt she knew she felt about deceiving George, but another layer of regret that had always been there, under the surface. "I was so lonely, and I had no word from Harry for so long. He told me to move on ..."

Ruth's eyes were so stricken that Isabelle had to lean forward now. "Ah, yes, the loneliness. I know it, my dear. And I shouldn't have been so...what is your word... arrogant?" Ruth nodded. "A year is a very long time, and you say he told you to move on? I never had that with Pierre. He told me instead to stay true, to be faithful. It was very different, Ruth."

"But shouldn't I have known?" Ruth brushed the tears from her cheeks absent-mindedly as she spoke. "If it's the kind of love I thought it was, why would I ever consent to live with another man, to think of marrying him...and now, he's dead, because of me..." Ruth had already gone further than she thought she should, but the words were tumbling out. If she didn't use names, if she stayed general, she wouldn't be breaking any rules. And Ruth needed so much to talk about this. Not with a therapist at Tring, but with her dear friend Isabelle, who had experienced something similar, and who loved her.

"Ah..." Isabelle said softly, raising her eyebrows in comprehension. "Oh, I'm so sorry...this dangerous work..." A bare hint of anger entered her voice, and then it was gone. "And did you love this man?"

There it was. The same question Harry had asked her in the warehouse. _Do you love him?_ And her answer, _I feel very ... guilty_. This time, she answered the question as she should have then. "No." Ruth looked down at her hands in her lap, and said, her voice choking, "I used him." Ruth realised how blunt that sounded, and she looked up at Isabelle and took a deep breath. "I don't know how else to say it."

And now the tears came in earnest, in sobs. Isabelle leant forward completely and took Ruth's head on her shoulder. With her arms full around her, Isabelle felt the shuddering of Ruth's guilt, and the warmth of the tears as they fell and spread on her blouse at her neck.

"I...k-killed him...he was a good man...h-he loved me...he had a s-son...who now has n-no father..." Ruth spoke between sobs, and Isabelle let her. With her hand rubbing Ruth's back, she rocked gently, and murmured softly, as she remembered doing with Guillaume when he was a small child.

Finally, Ruth's erratic breathing calmed, and she spoke, in a flat, resigned voice. "I called Harry a heartless bastard. I thought Harry could save him, but really, that poor man ... a good man ... died the moment I drew him into my life." Ruth pulled away and looked at Isabelle, her face a mask of sadness. "I thought I could leave it all behind, that life. Perhaps I could have, but ... but Harry was still there." Ruth looked down in despair, "I can't seem to leave Harry behind, Isabelle."

"Oh, and why would you want to, my dear girl?" Isabelle held Ruth's face, and tipped her chin up, gazing gently into her eyes. "We mustn't ever turn our back on love. And most particularly not on a love like the one I have seen between you and your Harry."

Ruth's voice sounded tiny to her. "Why is it so hard, then?"

Isabelle laughed softly. "And where did you ever get the idea it would be easy?" Wiping Ruth's tears from her cheeks with her thumb, Isabelle said, "Ah, how I loved Pierre. It took hold of me, and never let me go, through all those years. And if he were as near to me as London right now, my dear, there is nothing that would stop me from going to him."

Ruth looked up again, and into Isabelle's eyes. Shaking her head, she said, "I need time. To think."

Smiling, Isabelle said, "Yes, of course. But first, we eat. I have a lovely _Salade Nicoise_ and a cold bottle of wine waiting at home. You will come with me?"

Nodding, Ruth said, "Yes. I'd like that."

Isabelle stood, and took Ruth's hand, leading her out of the damask chair. She unplugged the kettle and quickly gathered up the tea things before turning out the light and walking with Ruth to the front of the store.

As Isabelle closed the register for the day, Ruth ran her fingers across the books on the tables she passed. "I did love it here, Isabelle." Ruth looked back at the older woman. "At the time, I thought I wanted to be somewhere else, but Paris was lovely, really ..." Ruth stopped and leant against the table. "Why do we do that to ourselves, do you think? Want to be where we're not?"

Isabelle came from around the counter and took Ruth's arm, smiling. "It's a part of being human, I'm afraid. We often don't see things for what they are when they stand all around us. We need distance." She turned and looked affectionately at Ruth. "It's why you are here now, yes? To get some distance so that you can see your Harry?"

Her face was so open and kind, that Ruth felt herself release still more of the pain she'd been holding for so long. Looking at Isabelle, she said, softly, "You're a great gift to me, and a dear friend. Thank you."

Isabelle laughed. "Ah, my sweet girl. We are gifts to each other." She turned out the light and opened the door, causing the bell to let out a tiny peal. "Come, let's eat, and drink, and find out what you'll decide to do, shall we?"

With that, Ruth and Isabelle walked out into the cool Paris evening.

* * *

Harry wandered through the house with Fidget and Phoebe close at his heels. _Bloody psychics, just like Ruth_, he thought. They always knew when he was troubled, and refused him the solitary peace of his own surly company. Scarlet, on the other hand, had become accustomed to his midnight wanderings, and was snoring softly on the couch.

It was getting colder, and Harry wore his slippers as he moved from table to chair, picking up the few items that were out of place. He was putting off the scotch for as long as possible, hoping that tonight he could find sleep in his bed, instead of his chair. As he passed the CD player, he put on the music that gave him the most comfort these days, Mahler's _Symphony of a Thousand_. Somehow, the doubled chorus made him feel smaller, less responsible for the world's woes. As he listened to the strings begin, he finally gave in and poured his first drink of the night.

Harry fell heavily onto the couch and leant his head back, listening. Now the sopranos had started, and he let himself be drawn into their voices. But still the only voice he really wanted to hear was Ruth's.

He'd heard nothing from her. Two days in Paris with Isabelle, and for all he knew, she'd decided to leave him and this life behind. It might already be a fact, one of which he was simply not yet aware. The competing desires of wanting to know, and the bliss of ignorance, were present in everything he did. And of course, the Grid had fallen strangely silent again, just when he needed a good diversion.

Ros was still on leave, and Lucas was handling things well. Everyone missed Jo terribly, but in the way they'd all gotten used to, things were plodding along with an awareness that she had quietly joined the others they'd lost. Harry was remembering what Ruth had said on the bench just two days ago: _They're all standing around me, demanding that I face them._ Harry saw them all as well, like a Greek chorus off in the shadows of the Grid. He saw them every day, but he had to keep telling himself that there would be more of them if he simply gave up.

He couldn't stop thinking about the bench. As he'd stood across from Greenwich looking at Ruth sitting there, he'd wondered what memories it would leave him with, and now he knew. A kiss, and Ruth's gentle voice saying _I love you_. She'd said it, and he'd felt it. But the irony of that memory was that really, it might make no difference to what Ruth would finally decide.

Harry knew now that the love had always been there, from the very beginning. The question was not whether they loved each other. The question was, as always, could they be together in their love? The fact that it was a decision he had no say in, again with a body of water between them, made Harry's skin feel as if he had electricity running through it. He was being patient, but how bloody patient was he expected to be?

Harry sighed and took a small sip of his drink, wanting to make it last so that another wouldn't be necessary. During these long nights, he couldn't seem to go for five minutes without thinking of Ruth. And then he smiled wryly, thinking, _Just who am I kidding? Five minutes would be a miracle_.

But he was getting tired. Last night he reckoned he'd gotten two hours of sleep, and it was already after one in the morning. As Phoebe slipped into the space between him and the arm of the couch, Harry downed the glass and set it beside him on the table.

He closed his eyes, and the music took him, finally, gratefully, into oblivion.

* * *

Harry woke, not to a sound, but to the feel of Scarlet on his chest. She was trembling, and her paws were clenched in painful little balls there – and in his half-awake state, Harry had a moment of remembering a night very much like this. So long ago, when Ruth had come to his door. In fact, frowning, Harry had to rub the sleep from his face before he could take in that this wasn't, in fact, that night, but another one. The innocence of the Ruth who had shown up on his doorstep two years ago had been shattered, perhaps beyond repair, since that night.

Looking at the clock, Harry sighed. 2:38. _Well, thank God_, he thought, _it isn't 2:23_, and he had to laugh, sardonically. "Bloody idiot," he said, under his breath. He looked at Scarlet and said softly, "What, girl?" Scarlet was focussed on the front door, quivering. Harry shook his head and stood. "Alright, I'll look. But there'll be no one there." He walked to the front door, and opened it.

"See?" he said to Scarlet, as they both surveyed the empty front stoop, "Nothing." He stood for a moment, remembering, and said absently, "No one here." Then he looked down to Scarlet, and said softly, sadly, shaking his head, "She's not here, girl."

He stood a bit longer, feeling the cool breeze on his face. He marvelled at the quiet the dead of night lent to the street in front of his house, which was usually a place of some minor activity. But Harry had trouble closing the door, because he _wanted_ Ruth here, on his doorstep. He could almost imagine her again, in her slippers, pyjamas, and coat, her hair dishevelled, her face open and flushed with the chill. But finally, even Scarlet gave up - satisfied that the house was secure, she walked back to the couch and jumped up, curling into a ball.

Harry closed the door, turned, and leant back against it, closing his eyes. In his exhaustion, he felt emotion welling up, and a part of him wanted it to spill over. He wanted to feel _something_ that connected to his feelings for Ruth, to the helplessness of the last two days, to his memory of her kiss and how much he wanted her, to his wondering if there was any future for them. Each hour had gone by, and he'd thought she would call. _I'm coming home_, she would say. _To our home_.

But she hadn't called, and with each hour, Harry had felt hope diminish and resignation increase. How long does it take to leave a life behind? He didn't know, but he was afraid he was finding out.

And then, a knock. Vibrating through his head, leant against the door. Harry opened his eyes, and after a deep breath, allowed himself to hope. He turned, pulled at the handle of the door, and there she was.

And again, as he had on that night so long ago, Harry doubted his own sight, and thought he'd created her from his own need, his own desperate imagination.

But she was quickly in his arms, and the doubt disappeared. It was his own Ruth, the other part of him, and as he held her, he breathed again.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TWELVE**

* * *

"Harry."

Her voice was in his ear, whispered, soft. He was speaking too, although he didn't know precisely what he was saying. And then, there was nothing more he could say, because her lips were on his. But this time, they weren't in a public place, they were in Harry's front hall. And it wasn't a tentative kiss, it was a kiss that told Harry that Ruth had not only made up her mind, but that she knew precisely what she wanted.

Harry reached his slippered foot around and kicked the door closed. It slammed far too loudly for the hour, but neither of them heard it. They were lost in each other and in their memories - two people who had spent too many nights deprived of the other's touch. Ruth's hands reached into his dressing robe and found the warm, smooth skin of his back. As they kissed, Harry touched Ruth's neck, her face, her hair. Somehow, he managed to pull himself away, and although he was afraid of the answer, he asked, "Are you home?" His hands framed her beautiful flushed cheeks, and a tear slid past, as Ruth smiled and said, on a choked breath, "Yes. I'm home."

"Oh, thank God," Harry whispered, taking her again in his arms. He held her tightly to his shoulder, cradling the back of her head with his hand. His chest rose and fell in the release of all the worry he'd been holding for two days, and he and Ruth stood, nearly motionless, savouring the feel of each other.

But there were others in the room that needed to be heard, and Ruth glanced down at the frantic figure eights being executed around their feet by Phoebe and Fidget. She and Harry could also feel Scarlet's sharp paws resting firmly, one on Harry's leg, and one on Ruth's. In fact, Scarlet decided that a yelp was necessary to gain the required attention, so she began with one, and then more.

Despite what seemed to be the solemnity of the occasion, Ruth began to giggle, and she felt a laugh rise up in Harry as well, as he muttered wryly, "Christ. Who says we don't have children?" That set Ruth off further, and before they knew it, they were laughing, and bending down in the furry midst of three girls who would not be denied the joy of the homecoming.

After a moment, Ruth looked at Harry, who was smiling and talking softly to Scarlet. _This man is so dear to me_, she thought, _How could I ever have imagined I could stay away?_ Ruth reached her hand out to Harry's face, and he bent his mouth to the palm of her hand and kissed it. Still with his eyes on hers, he said, "I love you."

Ruth took Harry's hand and stood, pulling him up with her, and she went silently to the front door and locked it. Her carry-all, _the_ carry-all, that had finally found its way home again after two years, was still in the hallway where she had just dropped it. She picked it up and handed it to him. Still saying nothing, she walked through the lounge, turning out the lights, one by one. Then, Ruth led Harry up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom.

It was just approaching three in the morning, and the moon had travelled far enough across the sky to send its brightness through the tall windows and across the floor of Harry's bedroom. As their eyes adjusted, everything in the room began to take on a blue glow.

Ruth stood in the middle of the room for a time, remembering. The last time she'd been here was just before she'd left Harry in Dover, and she'd thought then that she would be back soon. It had felt like it was only the start of an easier time for them, when the constraints that had kept them apart would begin to relax. When she'd last stood in this room, George Constantinou was unknown to her, and a life in the mountain house on Cyprus would have been unthinkable unless it was to be spent with Harry.

Ruth looked up at the painted ceiling of Harry's dressing room, just faintly visible in the half-light, and she recalled knotting his tie, and the moment he'd pressed his house key into her hand. So much had happened since that morning that she never could have imagined, and, as she had so many times in the last two days, Ruth thought of how utterly futile it was to worry about the future.

Harry stood silently and let her encounter the space again, and once more, he was grateful that he'd brought no other woman here. It belonged to her as completely as it did to him. It was his most personal space, where he allowed his defences to fall each night, and where for so long, he'd given in to the pain and loneliness of Ruth's absence. Harry watched her now as she turned, surveying the dressing room, and the window seat, and then, finally, the bed.

Ruth's head tilted slightly as she looked at the table on what she and Harry had considered "her" side of the bed, ever since she'd slept there for the first time. A shaft of moonlight from the window fell on a small, wooden, heart-shaped box that she'd never seen before. She looked at Harry with a question in her eyes, and he nodded. He smiled, and said, softly, "Open it."

With his hand still in hers, Ruth walked to the bed and they both sat down. She reached over and pulled the short cord for the light on the table, which flooded the room instantly with soft, muted light. Ruth picked up the wooden box and held it gently, knowing what must be inside. For a moment, she found herself feeling nervous, almost shy about opening it, but Harry put his arm around her and gently kissed her temple, whispering again, "Open it, Ruth."

She removed the top, and an involuntary sigh escaped her. She looked at Harry with her eyes now filled with tears, and handed him the box. He took the necklace out, and placed it around her neck, and as he clasped it, he bent and kissed the tiny silver H and R charms. His lips travelled gently up her neck, to her ear, and across her cheek , and then he allowed his lips to brush tenderly over hers.

Ruth's eyes were closed, and her head leant back. She whispered against his cheek, "I didn't think I'd ever see this again." Her hand was at her neck, and her fingers ran lightly over the charms as she used to do in Paris whilst she wrote her letters to him.

Harry pulled back and watched her until her eyes opened. When they did, he said, "And this?" He held out his hand and opened it to show her the ring resting on his palm. Ruth smiled and picked it up, then held the ring between her two fingers, watching as the light played softly on the tiny charms hidden there.

"Nor this," she said, with an almost bewildered tone. "So many things I thought were lost," she looked at Harry and stroked his face gently. "Now found again." Harry took the ring from her, and then took Ruth's left hand. He placed the circle of silver gently on her third finger and kissed it.

He couldn't speak, although he had so much he wanted to say. Harry thought it might be true that, after all that had happened, he didn't deserve the happiness he was feeling. But this was the moment he'd created in his mind over hundreds of lonely nights in his bed, and now he didn't care whether he deserved it or not. He kissed Ruth again, to be sure she was real, and she responded, warm and soft in his arms. He could feel her blood pounding and rushing just as his was, her breath coming quickly now in anticipation of what they both knew was about to happen.

Since the last time he'd been with Ruth, Harry had slept alone, night after night. He'd had to make do with memories of the feel of Ruth's skin, the taste of her, and the scent of lavender that clung faintly to her neck and shoulders. Now it all came flooding back to him, and he couldn't seem to take it all in – it overwhelmed him, and made him slightly dizzy. Harry closed his eyes and laid back as Ruth pulled herself next to him on her pillow. They found themselves lying together naturally, just as they'd been in his bed so long ago, before the world had turned upside down.

Ruth wanted Harry so much, but there was something she had to say. They both knew that Ruth hadn't held herself separate as Harry had, and that she'd given herself to George. That fact hung between them now, and had to be acknowledged. She buried her head in his shoulder and said softly, "I'm so sorry, Harry." And then Ruth finally answered the question Harry had asked her in the warehouse. "I never loved him. It was always you. Only you."

"I know." Harry held her closer. "And I should never have left you there alone." He kissed her gently. "We start today, my Ruth. Right now. This is the beginning. Nothing else matters."

Harry kissed Ruth again, and together, they remembered.

* * *

"What was it that finally made your mind up?" Harry asked.

The rising sun was forming pools of colour on the bed and beginning to illuminate the room. Ruth lay contentedly in the crook of Harry's arm, watching the soft light play gently on his skin. Over the last year she'd found herself here so often in her mind, and then, once she'd chosen to be with George, she'd worked hard at forgetting how it had felt to be with Harry. The relaxation of finally allowing herself to simply be with him was impossible to describe.

Ruth didn't move, but began to answer softly. "Isabelle was talking about the shop, and the website, as we ate dinner the first night I was with her. We'd nearly finished the bottle of wine, and we'd laughed a lot about her learning curve with the internet, and how surprised she was that she now sort of understands it. Suddenly, she stopped talking, and the most extraordinary look came into her eyes."

Ruth moved up on her elbow and looked at Harry. "She said, 'I wish,' and then she stopped, and said it again, 'I wish.' And her voice had this kind of otherworldly sound to it, as if she'd gone somewhere far away for a moment." Ruth ran her fingers across Harry's chest as she remembered. "And finally, she said, 'I wish Pierre could see it.'"

Smiling, Ruth said, "I'd like to say it was something more earth-shattering. That the skies opened, and I had a sudden revelation of some kind, but it wasn't like that. She'd also said something earlier, about how quickly she would go to Pierre if she only had to travel the distance between Paris and London."

Ruth frowned slightly as she tried to put it into words. "I can't explain how plaintive her words were. _I wish_. Especially coming from Isabelle, who seems so able to negotiate whatever life throws at her. I knew in that moment that she would give nearly anything to have this ..." Ruth placed a hand on Harry's cheek. "... Or this ..." She leant up and kissed him, and Harry wrapped his arms more tightly around her. For a moment, they let those words sink in as they breathed together. _I wish_.

Ruth turned and nestled next to him again. "I know that since I've been back, I've struggled against you, Harry, and that this might sound too simple. But as I listened to her, I started thinking about being here again, in this house. I thought of you and how alive and real you are, and all the rest of it started somehow to get smaller. I realised that if Isabelle had the chance for one more day with Pierre, it wouldn't matter where he worked, or what had happened between them."

Ruth's hand was on Harry's chest as she lay next to him, and a sliver of the morning light caught the ring on her finger. She held it up and moved it gently back and forth, watching as pale colours emerged and changed in the bright silver. "I was awake most of that night, thinking. And the next day, I left her at the shop and returned to Sophie's life for a time. To my flat - well, not inside, of course, but across the street, to the small strip of grass, where I used to listen to children play through my open window as I wrote letters to Will Arden."

Harry's chest rose and fell with a deep breath at the memory of those letters, but he remained silent. He wanted to hear what she was thinking, the way he always wanted to know what his Ruth thought. After so much time apart, Harry thought he could listen to her talk all night.

"I walked on the bridge, the _Passarelle_, and sat on the bench where you and I talked about getting married. I had lunch at the cafe where you asked me, where we'd been with Tom and Christine. And I went to the church across from the Louvre and sat for a long time. And the whole day, I tried to finish the sentence that Isabelle had started for me. _I wish_ ..."

For a moment, Ruth was silent, and Harry felt the warmth of her breath brushing across his chest, measured, even and calm. Then she began again. "The first answers to that question were rather angry, actually. I wished things were different. I wished you were the banker and I was the shopgirl. I wished I'd never dragged George and Nico into my life." Ruth sighed. "But those wishes were full of regret, and couldn't be changed. I told Jo once that I didn't want to feel powerless any more." Ruth paused. "Those wishes made me feel powerless again ..."

Now Ruth wanted to see Harry's eyes, so she turned and sat up, pulling the sheet around her. Harry sat up too, moving pillows behind his back. Their hands reached out naturally, easily, and entwined together. He played absently with her ring, running his finger across it as he had so many times since she'd been gone. When he'd held it then, the silver had simply been cold metal. Now it was warm from Ruth's body, alive with her.

Ruth continued, "So I started to ask myself: What do I wish, really? What's within my power? As I sat in the church, I did the most simple thing, Harry. I counted my blessings, and tried to think what was missing." Ruth looked deeply into Harry's eyes. "And what was missing was you."

Harry smiled and brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. A moment ago, he'd been silent in order to give her the freedom to speak. Now, he was feeling so much that he wasn't certain he could speak even if he wanted to. Harry knew this was just a moment, but it felt as if a journey of nearly six years was somehow coming to an end in this conversation, and that a new journey was beginning.

Ruth smiled back at him, and said softly, "Did you know that Jo loved Zaf?"

Harry frowned slightly as he allowed the idea to take hold, and shook his head. Then, as he thought it through, it began to make sense, and a soft sigh escaped him on the sound of an "Ah." For a moment, they looked at each other in sadness and memory, and then Harry found his voice. "And Zaf?"

Ruth shrugged a little. "They never found out. But she thought so."

Harry smiled sadly. "So we weren't the only ones with secrets."

"It seems not."

Harry thought Ruth was more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. He leant forward and kissed her, gently. "I'm very glad I asked you to dinner on the roof that day."

Ruth laughed softly at the memory. "You really surprised me. There we were talking about thermobaric bombs, and suddenly you're doing the bread roll dance. My heart was pounding. I'm surprised I made any sense at all." Ruth began to twist the corner of the sheet absently in her hands. "I've thought so often in the last year ... well, longer even than that, I suppose ... about _what if_?" She looked across at Harry. "What if we'd never started this? What if I'd left it at no, and had never come over here that night? What if we'd never kissed, Harry? If we'd simply stayed colleagues?"

Frowning slightly, Ruth said, "I wouldn't have been here that morning Maudsley died. No Mace. No Paris. No Cyprus ... no George."

Harry shook his head gently. "I'm not certain I believe that. I know now that I loved you even before I realised it. Sooner or later, whether at Havensworth, or at the pub some night, or at a bus stop, it would have happened." Harry squeezed Ruth's hand lightly. "It's as if it was ... inevitable."

Ruth raised her eyebrows, and gave him a bemused look. "Are you talking about destiny? That doesn't sound like you."

Harry smiled, mildly embarrassed, and leant back on the pillows. "I'm not certain what I'm talking about, but I can't imagine my life without you, no matter what the circumstances were."

Harry watched Ruth's forehead take on the familiar folds as she thought. Then, shaking her head slightly, Ruth said, "I just can't get my mind around the concept of destiny right now. It's not only you and me, Harry. I pulled others into it, out of my own selfishness, and I'm having such a hard time reconciling that. How do you live with being the one who has caused someone to die?"

"Is that a literal question, or a rhetorical one?"

Ruth shrugged, "I suppose it can't be both, can it?" She looked up. "Literal, then."

Harry reached up and put his hand on her cheek. "I have to keep reminding myself that everyone has free will. In my case, there's no one that's been led to the Grid in irons, being told they _have_ to do this work. It's a choice." And now he asked the rest of the question that he'd also wanted to ask on that terrible day in the warehouse. "You said you didn't love George. Did he know that?"

Ruth nodded, sadly. "I never deceived him in that way. I told him I still loved someone else. I didn't tell him who you were, or that I worked for MI5, but I couldn't, could I?" Harry's eyes held so much love in them that Ruth had to avert her gaze to the windows, which were beginning to brighten. "He told me he loved me. I think he always thought I'd learn to love him someday, but I never said it, or led him to believe I did." She looked back at Harry, and said simply, "I suppose that helps me to sleep at night."

Harry gave her a half-smile. "Then he had his eyes open. It was a choice. It wasn't his choice to be killed, certainly. But he chose to be with you, and with all that entailed."

Harry had seen a lot of the world, and although this conversation wasn't easy, he was glad to be having it. But he wasn't after all, made of stone, and talking about Ruth being with George brought up some strong feelings. Harry found he suddenly needed reassurance, so he asked, softly, "Just as you're choosing, I believe, to be with me? No matter what it entails?" It was a very big question, and Harry held his breath as he waited for the answer.

Ruth nodded. "Yes. That's what I'm choosing. For better or for worse, Harry." Ruth saw Harry exhale almost involuntarily, and she slid back into his arms. She would find a way, somehow, to convince him that there was never any danger of another man stealing her heart away from him. She knew now that it could only be borrowed. For a moment, they lay with eyes closed, silently taking in what they'd just said.

Harry spoke first, softly. "Will you see Nico again, do you think?"

Ruth sighed against his chest. "Not if his Aunt Christina can prevent it. But perhaps there will come a time, when he's older, that he can make his own decisions." Ruth paused. "I do know that we shared something, he and I."

"Malcolm told me how brave you were with the boy, when you told him his father had died." Harry stroked Ruth's hair absently, marvelling at its softness.

"Oh, I didn't feel very brave." Ruth held Harry just slightly tighter, remembering. "It was a terrible thing to have to do. I'm not even certain I recall what I said."

"I know," Harry said, nodding. "It was the same with Wes. They trust us so much to know what we're doing, don't they? They can't know how little separates us from them. Wes seemed more able to cope than I was."

Ruth sat up and turned to face Harry. "You told Wes? When Adam died?"

"Yes, I wrote to you about it ..." Harry smiled, realising it was one of his "recorded" letters. "Well, actually, I spoke about it, in a letter to you."

"What letter?" Ruth asked, frowning.

Harry gave a short laugh. "Oh, Malcolm invented some sort of incomprehensible contraption to record the diary that I insisted, against his advice, on continuing to write. He finally gave me something to speak into, a machine that would require the greatest minds of the century to hack into, I suppose."

"And you used it for letters to me? But you didn't send them?"

Harry sighed deeply. "I promised myself, and God, in desperation ... the night you were taken by Yalta ... that if you were allowed to get away to safety, I'd never contact you again – but I still needed to talk to you..." Harry stopped, and before he realised he was doing it, he looked up at the ceiling, slightly dismayed. Neither he nor Ruth had a stitch of clothing on, although they were discreetly covered by the bed sheets. Harry thought this might constitute "contact" in the eyes of a deity. "I've never made that sort of promise to God before," Harry said. "I certainly hope the Almighty takes my human frailty into account as he looks down on _this_ little scene."

Ruth had known that Harry felt he'd been protecting her with his silence for the year on Cyprus, but this was the first time she'd heard him describe how he'd come to the decision, and how difficult it was. _A promise to God_. She couldn't imagine how desperately worried he must have been to do that.

"Oh, Harry. It was as hard for you as it was for me, wasn't it?"

Harry ran his finger gently across her lips. They were set in the frown that showed how much his words had affected her. "I'd like to say it was harder for me, but I suspect we felt it equally, my Ruth." Harry felt his eyes beginning to sting, and knew that tears wouldn't be far behind, so he brightened, and said, "So, yes. I have an entire year's worth of ramblings recorded."

"And do I get to listen to them?" Ruth asked, softly.

"They belong to you. You can listen anytime you'd like." Harry smiled, but his eyes were serious. "As long as you promise to still love me. I was a broken man without you. There's anger there, and tears. But always love."

Ruth smiled too. "Well, whilst I listen to yours, you can read the letters I wrote to you."

Raising his eyebrows, Harry said, "Letters to me? From Cyprus?" Ruth could see his delight at the idea. "Did you keep them?"

"Yes. I put them on Isabelle's server at _l'Alcove_. I got them and printed them last week." Ruth's cheeks coloured slightly. "I read them all again just before Malcolm's party. It's why I finally showed up. I had to see you again."

Harry's eyes grew tender as he gazed at her. "We never really let go of each other, did we?"

"No, I don't suppose we did," Ruth said. She laid down with her head on his chest, and Harry reached his arm around her. She was silent for a moment, and then she said, "You owe me a trip to the opera, Harry."

For a moment, Harry lay looking at the ceiling, wondering where that non sequitur had come from. Then Ruth felt his chest rise, and he exhaled loudly. "Ah. You saw the paper, didn't you?"

"She was lovely," Ruth said, in a slightly clipped tone.

Harry smiled into the glow of the rising sun, amused by Ruth's obvious jealousy. "She was Nicholas Blake's sister. On a rebound from a failed marriage. He all but begged me, and _then_ he pulled rank." Harry held Ruth just a bit tighter, and his voice became more serious. "And she, my Ruth, practically secured you your new passport. She was the favour I called in. I'd say that was worth an evening of _Boheme_."

Ruth knew she had no right to ask, but she could also hear Harry's playful tone. "So, did you kiss her goodnight?"

Harry laughed. "_O, beware of jealousy, it is the green-eyed monster..."_

Ruth turned and laughed with him, saying, "And that's not an answer, is it?"

Pulling her into his arms, Harry kissed Ruth, and murmured into her hair, "No. I didn't kiss her. I was the perfect gentleman. Showed her to her door and thought of you all the way home, all night long, and up to this very minute..." Harry kissed Ruth again, quickly, and said, "But I'll happily take you to _Boheme_, if you'd like. Now. Today. _Boheme_ is always playing somewhere."

"You also owe me a trip to the Louvre." Ruth was not a woman who pouted, but Harry thought she might be just on the verge.

Harry said softly, "It seems I'm badly in arrears." Then, raising his eyebrows slightly, he said, "But I recall that you sat in my office recently and asked me to yours for a home-cooked meal. Can we put that on the books as well, so I'll feel less in debt?"

Ruth peered into his eyes in silence for a moment, and Harry simply watched her. Ruth's eyes, so dear to him, amused, intelligent, and with such depth behind them. But it was the love she reflected back to him now that suffused him with a sense that, against all odds, things might just be alright after all.

She tilted her head slightly, and whispered, "It seems we have a lot to do together, Harry." Without thinking, Ruth looked down at her ring, and Harry followed her eyes. He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips, where he kept it while he gazed back at her.

Harry had no desire to change this moment, but his question was clear. He'd promised himself that nothing would stop him if he ever had the chance again to marry her. Now he raised his eyebrows, and allowed their instinctive telepathy to take over. They were each allowing the vision to flow back in - of a white dress and flowers, surrounded by good friends.

Ruth smiled, and even had the good grace to blush just a bit. "Lots to do," was all she said. She moved closer and kissed him, lingeringly. And then against his ear, she said, "But first, I'm hungry."

Harry laughed, saying, "This does not surprise me." He pulled away so he could see her face, and said, "Full English, I presume?"

"If possible," she said. She stood, taking the top sheet with her, and walked to the wardrobe.

Harry watched her put on an impeccably pressed dress shirt, and he was so full of love for her that he could hardly breathe. "You keep that up, I won't have any shirts left, you know."

Ruth walked over and took his hand. "Breakfast, please." Harry stood, and she put her arms high around his neck and kissed him again. "And after breakfast – a bubble bath. If you're a good boy, you may join me."

The look in her eyes was unmistakable. And once again, and not for the last time, Harry Pearce thought himself the luckiest man in the world.

* * *

**Thank you for reading...this is the end of the story for now, although I may finish out the series sometime in the future. I can't begin to thank my two wonderful friends and betas, Isa and Sarah. All I can say is that this story belongs to them as well.**

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